


Fractured

by Philip_The_Poet



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hospitals, Letters, M/M, New York City, Phone Calls, Photographs, This sounds really dark, a n g s t, but when it's cute it's REALLY cute, it kind of is, jeffmads - Freeform, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-18 03:23:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11865642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philip_The_Poet/pseuds/Philip_The_Poet
Summary: Thomas Jefferson leaves for New York City with only a suitcase, a box of letters, and a book that he refuses to open.





	1. Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Yup, I'm alive. So, this is gonna be pretty different from all my other fics, and I'm really excited to share it. Bear in mind that the story will be told in both the present and in flashbacks, and you'll start to understand more and more with each chapter. I'll update Mondays and Thursdays. So, without further ado— enjoy!

Crackling.

Jefferson rolls over, pressing his face into yellowing fabric.

Cold. Sweat. Grey.

Light comes through the blinds, pouring in from where they bent and broke between their strings.

Cars. Sun. Noise.

Crackling.

 _Groans_.

His bones had settled into the mattress, now waking up one by one with vile creaks that echo up and down his spine. Jefferson's skin is plastered with sweat, trapped under layers of stained, sharp, dusty sheets, coating every inch of him. The floral comforter is strewn across raggedy mauve carpeting that crunches under bare feet and cracks under boots.

Crackling.

Cold. Sweat. Grey.

Crackling.

Crackling.

Crackling.

Cr—

" _Shut the fuck up_."

Jefferson speaks into his pillow, and, even muffled, his voice cracks and fizzles into motion, thick with mucus and the remnants of an indefinite amount of restless sleep.

The hotel room's coffeemaker pays him no mind.

Crackling.

Crackling.

Crackling.

He lifts an arm. The sheets stick. He lifts a leg. The mattress squeaks. He drags his body across the heaps of sweaty blankets and unclean sheets and discarded clothes and old tissues and crumpled papers and protein bar wrappers.

He falls over the side with a grunt.

Getting off the ground is slightly easier— if the bed was revolting, the floor is unbearable. The texture alone is enough to revive Jefferson, his muscles springing into aching action to pull him up from the carpet.

Crackling.

Crackling.

Crackling.

He wipes his hand across his face.

Cold. Sweat. Grey.

Crackling.

He tiptoes clumsily between the foot of the bed and the wall, lurching towards the rickety wood table upon which the room's broken clock, broken phone, and breaking coffeemaker sit. The third of these things is rattling listlessly, the pot shaking at the base as the lights on the side flicker on and off to the rhythmless beat of the machine's relentless crackling.

Jefferson stretches his arm halfheartedly, reaching out to hit the side of the thing with the heel of his hand.

The plastic cracks.

The thing's lights dim and flicker until they have gone dark.

The machine falls silent.

Jefferson coughs.

Cars. Sun. Noise.

It's been almost a full day since he's had anything to eat or drink. Even with a broken clock, he could tell that much. Even so, the water in the sink tasted metallic when he had first tried it— it's really only palatable when spat out with toothpaste or mixed with stale coffee. And, as for food, the stash of store-brand granola bars in the drawer under the TV is seeming less and less appetizing by the hour. Making coffee is probably the best option, but since he's just rendered the coffeemaker temporarily dysfunctional, the easiest thing to do is to give up.

Cold. Sweat. Grey.

He gives up.

The bed creaks in protest of Jefferson's body falling back limply to resettle among the nest upon it, but what with the rusty swivel chair in the corner of the room being completely covered with rejected clothes, this is the only place to sit.

Or lie down.

Or collect dust.

Admittedly, this last point is far from true; a sheen of dust coats every exposed surface, and, if Jefferson had the will to check, he would probably find it coating every unexposed surface, too. The table. The bookshelf. The one book it held. The walls in the bathroom. The television. The drawers. The closet. The bed frame.

The box on the nightstand.

Jefferson reaches for this box now, fingers stretching and snapping unnaturally after being out of use for a day (or quite possibly longer). Jet black cardboard with rough edges and a torn lid meet knotted knuckles and shaking hands, and within a moment, the file box is in his lap.

Gingerly, Jefferson lifts the lid.

He breathes in.

_Yours sincerely,_

_With the assurance of the most perfect respect and attachment I remain yours,_

_Accept my sincerest affection and highest esteem,_

_Yours affectionately,_

_Yours._

The inside of the box is free of dust, the papers within crisp and mint. Jefferson hugs it to his chest.

 _Yours_.

A noise interrupts the heavy silence.

Crackling.

 _Groans_.

Sweat.

Cold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, there's a plot coming, I promise. ;D comments and kudos make my life worthwhile so please don't hesitate to brighten your Poet's day!


	2. Fractured I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our first flashback chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an impatient little shit so I'm changing my update schedule to every-couple-of-days, so here's to that!
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

_Jefferson recalled the name._

_James Madison._

_He knew a fair amount about him, too— the man lived rather close by in Virginia, he had attended Princeton University, he was interested in the theory of law and the practice of politics, he had written several rather intriguing essays, and he was— Jefferson was certain —a bachelor._

_What he didn't know was why on earth James Madison was calling his cell phone._

_"... and your essays, Mr. Jefferson... I don't believe it would be out of line to say that they really struck a chord with their readers." John Adams eyed him from across the desk. They had met to discuss various matters of Jefferson's budding political career, among them being the next senatorial campaign, but the interaction seemed to be taking a somewhat different track. "If you market yourself as the mind of a generation, you're sure to gain followers fast. Especially with your age— you're far from old. Time is very attractive to voters."_

_"Thank you." Jefferson nodded stiffly._

_"I imagine whoever you're choosing for your campaign manager must have talked about the opposition, as well," Adams raised an eyebrow, lazily stirring more cream into his coffee._

_"Right." Jefferson snatched a file folder off the desk in front of him, sifting through its contents. There was no subtle way to wipe the sweat from his hand onto his jacket or pant leg. He broiled in his own nervousness. "Um. I brought—"_

_Jefferson jumped._

_His phone erupted into vibration and ceaseless ringing._

_"Shit..." Jefferson swore between his teeth, reaching irritably into his back pocket and grasping the damned device so he could shut it off. It was probably some service number, or that nondescript town in Idaho that called every few days, or one of his siblings asking for a favor. "I apologi—"_

_The caller ID disproved all of his previous assumptions._

_James Madison._

_"Uhm..." Jefferson stared at the screen._

_"'Uhm'?" Adams sipped his coffee and shrugged. "Take your call, Mr. Jefferson."_

_Jefferson clenched his jaw and gave a tight nod before making his way to the door, heading at a speed-walk to the exit into the building's courtyard._

_He cleared his throat and accepted the call._

_"Mr. Madison. I don't believe we've formally met. Thomas Jefferson."_

_"A pleasure," Madison replied. His voice was brusque, clipped, sharp. A bit quiet, too, if Jefferson was being honest. He had never really heard the man speak before. "Did I catch you at a bad time, or...?"_

_"No, no," Jefferson assured, leaning haphazardly back against the wall. "Can I be of some assistance?"_

_"Ah. Actually," Madison paused a moment, seeming to think something through. "I have a... an offer to make."_

_Jefferson's eyes followed an airplane overhead dragging across the sky. He took in a long breath. "An offer?"_

_"I saw you last week at a dinner party of George Washington's, Mr. Jefferson," Madison began slowly. "You had a presence. An aura, if you will. I'm not usually the type to reach out, but something in the way you carried yourself impressed me enough to ask Washington for your contact information."_

_Jefferson squinted into the clouds. "Mm."_

_"I regret not starting the conversation at the party itself," Madison continued, "But I've been considering your beliefs since then. And. Well. Mr. Jefferson, I'd like to offer you my friendship."_

_Jefferson raised his eyebrows. A contemplative silence fell— Madison must have anticipated a delay after asking, for he seemed patient with waiting for Jefferson to think. And, indeed, there was a great deal to think about. A moment passed before Jefferson spoke. "Your friendship."_

_"Yes."_

_"You seem to have forgotten about political alliances," Jefferson observed. "You skip right to friendship, Mr. Madison."_

_"Right," Madison affirmed, "But you seem to have forgotten which is, actually, more beneficial."_

_If he wasn't before, now Jefferson was interested. "Go on."_

_"I was paying attention to your thoughts on natural rights and liberty. It was probably the most interesting conversation I listened to at Washington's function." Madison spoke evenly, carefully. "What I find is that alliances are rarely helpful in terms of reform. You can get elected if you have the right allies, but you aren't going to_ get _anywhere."_

_"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."_

_"Friends are in a much better position to influence one another in thought," Madison clarified. "Having conversations in a friendship probes more sharing of ideas than outright political strategies. And, ultimately, what I've found is that the more personal approach about ideas tends to shape ideals, which shape beliefs, which shape laws, which, of course, shape politics and general life."_

_Jefferson blinked. "You've thought this through."_

_"I'm not usually a headfirst collaborator, Mr. Jefferson, but I imagine a friendship between the two of us would be as much of an alliance as you're hoping for." Madison let this sit for a moment. "I'll remind you that our beliefs thus far line up rather precisely, and that I've worked with one of your prospective rivals in the past. I know Alexander Hamilton well."_

_Jefferson nodded. Even if Madison couldn't see him, it seemed a reasonable gesture— as an up-and-coming politician, he was sure to need allies, and, considering Madison's point about the benefits of a friendly relationship on law and thought, it was looking increasingly more unwise to pass up the opportunity to get Madison on his side._

_Perhaps also the idea of something as intimate as a friendship appealed to something within Jefferson that he often disregarded._

_The next words out of his mouth were a jumble of impulse._

_"I can take you out to lunch."_

_"Out to lunch," Madison repeated. Jefferson wondered if that was a light smile he had heard in the other man's voice. "I have time around noon."_

_Jefferson switched the phone to his other ear. "Noon? Noon works for me. Do you care where?"_

_"Somewhere casual. Waiters and I have a complicated history of social anxiety and misplaced order slips."_

_Before he could stop himself, Jefferson laughed. "Do you know the bagel shop on the corner of Third and East?"_

_"Once you conveniently forward me the address, I will."_

_Fuck. He was laughing again. "Will do. I'll meet you at noon."_

_"Adieu, Mr. Jefferson."_

• • •

 

_Madison may have stood at only five-foot-four at his absolute tallest, but Jefferson had no trouble spotting him immediately upon entering the bagel shop._

_He was standing close to the door, staring intently at his phone in an effort to avoid passersby. Jefferson was quick to notice that his shirt was just slightly untucked, and that the space under each of Madison's eyes was prominently darker and more unkempt than the rest of his complexion. Lack of sleep was likely the culprit. Nevertheless, there was something charming about the slouch in his shoulders and the set of his jaw and Jefferson found himself doing something he could only describe as staring._

_Odd._

_He shook his head, crossing the shop to officially greet Madison._

_"Mr. Madison," Jefferson smiled, extending a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Officially. Formally. One-on-one."_

_Madison shook his hand with a nod. "Mr. Jefferson." He surveyed the shop, allowing himself a small breath of laughter. "Excellent choice of restaurant."_

_"They've got particularly good potato salad here," Jefferson defended. There was something teasing about this tone they shared. He found he rather enjoyed it. "And the prices are reasonable."_

_"You know," Madison crossed his arms across his chest, "I wouldn't have pegged you to be the type to care about reasonable prices."_

_Jefferson shrugged. "Good food should be a right, Mr. Madison. Specifically, good bagels and potato side dishes."_

_Madison laughed more this time, his eyes— bags and all —taking on an amused squint._

_Jefferson grinned._

_Shit. He was staring again._

_"I can order if you want to go find a table."_

_Madison hesitated. "No, I'll order for myself. I have to ask if... No. It's alright."_

_Jefferson shot him a curious glance. "If?"_

_"I'm— I'm allergic to peanuts," Madison replied brusquely. "I just have to ask if they use them in the kitchen or anything."_

_"Oh." Jefferson nodded. "I'll still pay for you, though, if your order isn't going to kill you?"_

_Madison stifled a chuckle. "Fair enough."_

_A smile tugged at Jefferson's lips. "Excellent."_

 

• • •

 

_"It's great, isn't it?"_

_Madison chewed thoughtfully, nodding after a moment. He swallowed his bite of potato salad. "Hmm. I can see why you'd rave about this."_

_Regardless of whatever Jefferson's plans had originally been for the day, he didn't need much time to decide that this lunch with Madison was shaping up to be a wonderful addition to his schedule. "So you got my phone number through Washington?"_

_"Mm hmm," Madison answered around his fork._

_Jefferson nodded. He took a bite of his bagel. "But you didn't approach me at the event."_

_Madison eyed him interestedly. "Don't you prefer this setting?"_

_"Well," Jefferson looked down at his shirtfront, "I was better dressed then..."_

_"Irrelevant."_

_Jefferson met Madison's eyes._

_Bad idea._

_They were dark with a distinct humor in them, and although he nearly managed to conceal all else, they were undoubtedly the most expressive feature of Madison's._

_Fuck. He was staring again._

_"I'm enjoying this," Jefferson finally agreed. "Thank you."_

_"Well. Your suggestion, Mr. Jefferson."_

_"Thomas," Jefferson corrected. He could have kicked himself— damn those eyes; he was drowning in them. Distractions, excuses, slip-ups... "Just Thomas is alright."_

_Madison's eyebrows raised the slightest bit. "Duly noted."_

_Jefferson wasn't often flustered, but something about the way Madison's eyes looked in the light from the window and the just-barely dried-out skin on his hands and the way his eyelashes moved when he blinked was catching him sorely off-guard._

_"I'm surprised we haven't done this before."_

_Madison nibbled at the edge of his bagel. "This?"_

_"Meet."_

_"It is strange."_

_His voice, too. It was soft and smooth and quiet and every time he coughed it hurt Jefferson's own throat just to hear it._

_Distractions, excuses, slip-ups..._

_Oh fuck. He was staring again._

_"I read your essays," he blurted out. "The ones you and Hamilton cowrote."_

_"John Jay wrote five, too," Madison added._

_"The papers were brilliant. Yours were."_

_Madison split into a small smile. "Was my voice distinct enough for you to tell which were mine?"_

_"I'd assumed the ones with the best arguments and strongest points were your work," Jefferson replied, bringing a bite of potato salad to his lips, "Based on other works of yours I've read."_

_Madison seemed taken by surprise. "You've read more than just that?"_

_"Only some," Jefferson admitted, "But it was enough to know."_

_"What interests me is your stance on natural rights." Madison redirected the topic. Jefferson let it slide, if only because he had become somewhat distracted by Madison's lips. "Your tagline. Why pursuit of happiness?"_

_God, would Jefferson have loved to pursue some happiness right about then._

_He shook his head as if to clear it. "As opposed to property?"_

_"In Locke's original text, yes. Why replace it?" Madison sipped his iced tea, still watching Jefferson._

_The latter considered this question for a moment before answering. "The pursuit of happiness is fundamentally achievable. It's immaterial. It's... it's really what everyone needs on some basic level."_

_Madison nodded slowly. Jefferson went on._

_"It's all-encapsulating. You don't own it, really; it owns you. I think that's always set property apart from life and liberty. Those both own you. They're yours as much as you're theirs. Whereas property is yours. Property is filling, not_ ful _filling. The pursuit of happiness fills the space much more accurately."_

_Madison tilted his head in contemplation. "So you would say the pursuit of happiness doesn't overlap with the idea of property."_

_Jefferson furrowed his brow. Normally, he would have avoided entertaining the notion of such blatant cross-examination, but something about Madison was different in that regard. He wasn't trying to fight— he was trying to debate._

_And that felt amazing._

_Jefferson grinned. "A good question. I'll have to think about it."_

_"Natural rights are a loaded concept." Madison smiled._

_The two exchanged a satisfied look._

_Fuck. He was surprisingly attractive_ and _he was brilliantly intelligent._

_And Jefferson was staring again._

_Madison had been right to avoid the term "allies"; what with the speed and breadth of their new connection, Jefferson much preferred to think of him as a friend. Or he'd like perhaps something with "friend" in it._

_"You sound different in person than you do on the phone," Jefferson noted._

_Madison winced. "I don't know which is worse."_

_"Worse?" Jefferson cocked an eyebrow. "I much prefer hearing you in person, but neither's bad."_

_Madison still shook his head._

_"They're both wonderful," Jefferson insisted. Inhibitions seemed like nothing more than frivolous obstacles at this point. "I assure you, I'd love to hear your voice more, Mr. Madison."_

_Madison looked up from his plate. He gave Jefferson a long look, biting the inside of his cheek. "James. Just... Just James is alright."_

 

 

Move.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

There are papers.

Words.

Ink stains.

Letters.

Jefferson's eyes are dry, aching and burning in the dusty air. He is surrounded.

Letters.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

His hands are shaking. He is shaking. The box is open. The letters are in his hands. On his bed. On the floor. In his head.

_Yours sincerely,_

_With the assurance of the most perfect respect and attachment I remain yours,_

_Accept my sincerest affection and highest esteem,_

_Yours affectionately,_

_Yours._

Jefferson takes fistfuls of them, dropping them back in their box. His hands are shaking. He is shaking.

_Yours_.

His.

The lid is back on the box.

The box is back on the shelf.

The book collects dust.

His hands are shaking. He is shaking.

Those were the memories.

Those were the words.

Those were his smile and his voice and his eyes.

Remember.

Remember.

Remember.

He is shaking.

_Yours_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos water my crops and encourage me to post more frequently. Come chat in the comments if you'd like! <3


	3. Static

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The puzzle continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little on the short side, but the ones following will be a lot longer. Enjoy!

Static.

Fucking static.

Jefferson swears, his voice dry and fleeting. He hits the remote against the bed frame again and again and again and again until it cracks.

Still only static.

Fucking static.

He doesn't even _want_ to watch anything. He doesn't _want_ to see the world. The blinds are closed, just as they have been since the moment he checked into the room. The light comes in enough to see without having to glimpse the cars and the road and the people below him outside. He's only had to leave the room two or three times to buy supplies. He sees no people. He sees no faces. He sees no dark eyes with humor in them, no dry hands, no soft lips, no quiet smiles.

He likes it that way now.

But the coffeemaker is crackling again.

The vent is blowing cold air.

The sink is dripping in the bathroom.

_His_ voice is still in Jefferson's ear.

How long has it been?

He hits the remote again and again. Clicks every button. The whir of static wanes and crests, splintering his mind.

But _his_ voice is still in Jefferson's ear.

He only wants to listen— listen to people and life and language and everything. Someone talking about the weather on TV. The room service manager on the broken phone. Another tenant through the crack under the door. All this is gold to him. Perhaps if he turns on the television, he can hear a conversation. A _conversation_.

He hurls the remote to the ground. It crunches against the carpet.

Still only static.

Fucking static.

Jefferson picks the thing up and slams the power button.

It falls silent.

Same as it ever was.

The letters are back in their box on the shelf— he doesn't remember taking them out last night, doesn't remember rereading them last night, doesn't remember last night. And now they are tightly shut and tucked into the corner behind the book.

The book remains unopened.

Same as it ever was.

This is when Jefferson's suitcase erupts into vibration and ceaseless ringing.

He hesitates.

Jefferson's been ignoring his phone, letting it ring and ring and ring until it rings itself out. But something is different this time. He wants to listen— listen to people and life and language and everything. Someone talking about the weather on TV. The room service manager on the broken phone. Another tenant through the crack under the door. All this is gold to him.

Perhaps if he answers the phone he'll hear.

Perhaps if he answers the phone _his_ voice will get out of Jefferson's ear.

He stands up, his legs filled with needle and his hands following thread. The phone is still ringing when he staggers over to it, the screen casting sharp light on the dust in the air as it spits a name up into the dark.

_Aaron Burr._

Jefferson touches the phone.

Recoils.

Returns.

Pokes the green button, squeezing his eyes shut.

His voice is torn. Raspy. Hideous.

"Hello?"

"Sweet Jesus, Jefferson," Burr replies, "You sound terrible."

Jefferson attempts to laugh. He croaks.

"Where are you?"

"I left note. A note."

"Yeah." Burr pauses. "You've been gone for almost two weeks. You left one note. Thomas."

Jefferson winces.

"Where are you?"

_New York City._

All he has to say is _New York City._

"I left," he answers instead.

"Okay." Burr is slow to respond. "Okay. Are you okay?"

Silence.

Same as it ever was.

Burr sighs. "Stupid question."

"Mm."

"I'm sorry." His voice is hollow. "You haven't been answering your phone."

"Mmm." Jefferson isn't trying to be difficult. He can't find words.

"Listen. George tried to call. We all did. Adams, Monroe, Angelica, me..." Burr trails off. "Even Alexander, for God's sake."

"I can't."

"The hospital called me this morning," Burr continues, "Trying to ask where you are. They have—"

Jefferson tenses. "I can't."

"They have some of his stuff for you." Burr's tone is softer. "To keep."

Silence.

Same as it ever was.

"Thomas?"

"Don't call me Thomas."

"Jefferson." Burr doesn't question it. Jefferson can almost see his curt nod. "Nelly tried to reach out to you."

Jefferson's voice doesn't reach beyond a whisper now. "I'm sorry."

"Just... Call her, okay?" It's clear Burr is trying too hard to be optimistic.

"I can't."

In theory, he can.

He still has her phone number. He has phone service. God knows he has time.

But he can't.

"Jefferson. Listen to me. You're both going through the same thing. She needs someone to talk to." Burr sighs. It's hard to tell if he's more exasperated or just plain saddened. "You do, too."

"I'm fine," Jefferson growls in reply. His flair for petty dramatics unearths itself for a moment in all its previous glory. "I've been fine since I got here, _Aaron_. I don't need you going'nd talking about how I need somebody to talk to when what I need's some damn _quiet_."

Silence.

Same as it ever was.

Jefferson doesn't need quiet on the outside. He needs somebody to talk to. He needs a break from the voices and the chaos and the noise in his head.

But _his_ voice is still in Jefferson's ear.

Burr speaks again.

"You haven't even looked at it, have you."

The book remains unopened.

Same as it ever was.

Same as it ever was.

Same as it ever was.

"I can't." His response is barely audible.

Burr takes a heavy breath. "Come home soon."

"I can't."

"Call Nelly, at the very least."

"I can't."

"Open the book, Jefferson, do _something_. Say _something_." These words should be more impactful, especially considering they're coming from Burr, but they fall flat and cold.

Jefferson's voice cracks. "I can't."

"Tho— Jefferson, you can't w—"

"I have to go." He feels detached. It isn't really him speaking. It isn't really his hand pulling the phone away from his ear. It isn't really his finger hovering over the _end call_ button.

"Call Nel—"

_Click_.

Silence.

Same as it ever was.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing makes me happier than interacting with my lovely readers. Comments and kudos are my lifeblood. <3


	4. Fractured II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our second flashback chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say that people who read angst are actually really fucking sweet? Enjoy!

_"This is one of the most clichéd things I've ever participated in."_

_Jefferson smirked. "A walk in the park isn't_ that _clichéd."_

_"You're wearing a peacoat, Thomas." Madison smirked right back, fists jammed in the pockets of his black coat. "There's a sign over there telling us not to feed the ducks. I ate a grilled cheese for lunch. This is_ that _clichéd."_

_Jefferson tried to ignore the flutter in his chest upon hearing his name in Madison's voice. Every. Damn. Time. "Are you complaining?"_

_"Of course not."_

_The sky was grey, a flat expanse of clouds blanketing the earth as far as Jefferson could see. Although the light of the sun still shone through enough for the world not to be overcast, its warmth was lost somewhere above and the air was thin and cold. Madison wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck._

_"Are you cold?" Jefferson glanced at the scarf. It was cheap plaid, a showcase of several odd shades of beige, probably the ugliest scarf in existence, and absolutely stunning on Madison._

_"If you're about to offer me your peacoat, that's officially the icing on the cliché cake," Madison deadpanned, kicking a pebble along with one foot. He coughed._

_Jefferson raised his eyebrows. "I'm impressed with your foresight."_

_"You'll freeze," Madison dismissed. He glanced at Jefferson's purple peacoat. "And I don't think I could quite pull that off."_

_"Oh, you can pull it off any time you feel like."_

_Jefferson grinned at Madison's blush._

_"I have to admit, I didn't think innuendos would become such an integral part of this friendship when I first suggested we begin it."_

_"Are you complaining?"_

_Madison smiled. "Of course not."_

_Jefferson took a moment as they walked to unbutton his peacoat and slide it off. He and Madison had been friends for a good three months now— the latter two of which were comprised less of political discussions and more of what Jefferson hoped was mutual attraction._

_Fuck, he hoped this was mutual._

_Surely, being the type not to shy away from getting what he wanted if the opportunity presented itself, he had no reservations about flirting with Madison. And, as the days and weeks and months ticked by, it seemed Jefferson wasn't just imagining the other man's reciprocation._

_"Here..." Jefferson lagged behind him a step or two, slipping the coat over Madison's shoulders. He straightened the collar, biting his lip to stop his smile._

_"Ooh, the coat exchange. Are we a rom-com yet?" Madison rolled his eyes teasingly. To Jefferson's relief, however, he accepted the coat without an objection._

_"Hmm... No. Too much com, not enough rom."_

_Madison laughed. "Any rom-time is spent working, on your end. Speaking of which. You haven't started campaigning."_

_"It's early," Jefferson replied. "I want it to be exactly right."_

_"You_ are _a perfectionist."_

_"You_ are _perfection."_

_Madison shot him a look. "Far from."_

_"I beg to differ," Jefferson scoffed. "Can I ask you for something stupid?"_

_"Hmm." Madison raised an eyebrow. "Yes."_

_Jefferson smiled. "Permission to take a picture with you."_

_"Oh." Madison glanced down. "I'm not quite dressed for..."_

_"Irrelevant."_

_"Okay." Madison shook his head submissively. "Sure."_

_Jefferson fished in his pocket for a moment, pulling out a silver digital camera with a wrist strap and 'T. JEFFERSON' scrawled on the side in Sharpie._

_"I would've expected a fancier camera from you." Madison smirked at the thing. "You're an unpredictable man, Mr. Jefferson."_

_"Thomas," Jefferson took a mock bow, clicking the power button, "Just Thomas is alright."_

_"Duly noted."_

_Jefferson flipped the camera over in his hand, turning it to face the pair of them. "Ready?"_

_"This is the most clichéd thing you've ever done," Madison replied, nevertheless wrapping an arm around Jefferson's waist to stay in-frame. And hopefully also just for the sake of wrapping an arm around Jefferson's waist. "I'm ready."_

_"Three... two..."_

_Jefferson clicked the button and switched the camera off. He'd look at the photo later._

_"Email that to me," Madison said, continuing to walk at his previous brisk pace._

_Jefferson laughed. "Gladly."_

_"Anyways. If you need help with the campaign, you know where to find me."_

_"Right," Jefferson nodded. "Thank you. James."_

_"Anything you need. Thomas."_

 

 

Jefferson stares at the tiles. The water's pouring down his back, cold as ice and twice as cutting. It feels like knives in his skin.

Sharp. Almost like glass. It shatters.

He blinks.

The shower is smaller than any Jefferson has ever used. His head keeps bumping against the shower head. His elbow keeps hitting the wall. His shampoo keeps dropping to the floor, clanging against the metal of the drain.

He chooses to ignore the fact that he's only used it twice since his arrival.

He closes his eyes.

Shatters.

 

 

_It often occurred to Jefferson to invite Madison to stay the night._

_After all, his visits to Jefferson's house had begun to increase in frequency, and, with the amount of evenings they were spending together, it seemed only logical to spare Madison the late-night commutes back home every time._

_He kept telling himself that this was the reason, at least._

_Jefferson gave his reflection a critical once-over in the mirror, adjusting his shirt for the umpteenth time._

_He_ was _a perfectionist._

_And Madison_ was _perfection_.

_Holy_ fuck, _did Jefferson want him._

_The doorbell rang just as he was messing with his hair, praying that it looked as casual and carefree as he hoped it did. Madison had a spare key— Jefferson hadn't hesitated to give him one —but he rarely used it, opting instead to knock or ring the bell every time he visited. With one last look in the mirror, Jefferson switched off the light in his bedroom and descended the staircase to answer the door._

_He swung it open._

_Madison smiled. "Thomas."_

_Fuck. Every damn time Madison smiled, he came undone._

_"James." Jefferson grinned easily, stepping aside to let him cross the threshold. "A pleasure as always."_

_"That's cordial," Madison observed, hanging his coat on the coatrack. He coughed into his elbow. "Especially compared to our phone conversation earlier."_

_"I found that particularly amusing," Jefferson defended._

_"I'm not complaining," Madison replied, following him to the kitchen, "It's just a big leap from poorly-timed puns and blatant sex jokes to 'a pleasure as always'."_

_"Hmm. Very true." Jefferson pulled a chair out at the island for Madison to sit on. He eyed the pot on the stove. "I hope you like absolutely peanut-free penne alla puttanesca, Mr. Madison."_

_"James. Just James is alright," Madison's lips twitched into a half-smile. Those_ lips. _Fuck. "And penne alla puttanesca sounds fantastic."_

_"So." Jefferson picked up the wooden spoon from the counter, giving the soup a quick stir before turning around to address Madison. "Would you like a glass of wine?"_

_He seemed to consider the offer for a moment. Jefferson had come to know Madison's mannerisms like he knew his own mind, and even so, he could still watch the man think for hours, without once getting bored. The way his eyebrows curved in, the way his lips formed a tight line, the way his jaw set..._

_"What do you have?"_

_"I'd been planning on splitting a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc before dinner," Jefferson suggested, "But if you'd prefer something else, I'm open to whatever you'd like."_

_"Sauvignon Blanc it is." Madison nodded. "And I'm sure one glass'll be enough for me."_

_"Whatever you want." Jefferson took two glasses from the cabinet and the bottle from the refrigerator, setting it all on the island before retrieving his corkscrew from the drawer by the stovetop. He uncorked the bottle, pouring a generous amount into each glass and sliding one over to Madison._

_The latter raised his glass gratefully. "Cheers."_

_Jefferson smiled, raising his own to meet Madison's. "Cheers."_

 

 

The mirror is cracked in exactly seven places and it's cracking in exactly four. Jefferson can't find a suitable selection of clothes.

He's freezing.

He considers calling the lobby about turning off the vent that blows cold air into his room to no end, but he's quick to remember that the phone can only dial room service, a dentist's office in Canada, and the Portuguese bakery down the street without crashing.

So he continues to search for something relatively clean, redirecting his efforts towards scourging the pile of linens and laundry on his bed.

He squints— it's getting hard to see straight. It's dark.

Cold. Sweat. Grey.

Fractured.

 

 

_"A lot, a lot, yeah," Madison laughed, his glass tipping dangerously between his thumb and forefinger. "Three brothers, three sisters."_

_Jefferson grinned, resting his legs on the ottoman and reclining into the couch. Madison had such a wonderful laugh. "You the oldest?"_

_"Nope." Madison downed what was left of his wine. "Will's six years older."_

_"Six," Jefferson repeated. He slung an arm across the back of the sofa. "Why haven't we talked about this before? What's he do?"_

_"He's in the military. Stationed up by Seattle." Madison laughed again. "He and his wife visited once. I find them both intimidating. They're tall. And their son tried to throw a roadkill squirrel at me." He shuddered. "Can't look at squirrels in clear conscience again."_

_"I could see why," Jefferson cooed. He slouched a bit, inching closer to Madison. He lowered his voice. "So he's married."_

_Madison turned slightly to look at him. "I was a groomsman in the wedding. I threw up after the ceremony and was escorted out by the DJ."_

_This was not exactly the type of banter Jefferson was hoping for, but he found it enjoyable, regardless. "Would you ever get married?"_

_"Married." Madison squinted in thought. God, he was gorgeous. In this odd, unconventional, sleep-deprived-and-caffeinated way, he was gorgeous. He was perfection. Jefferson slid a little closer. "I suppose I'd have to date someone first."_

_"Well." Jefferson stretched his arms, one step away from purring like a cat. "Got your eyes on someone?"_

_Madison stared at him. "Do you?"_

_Although a bit phased by the deflection, Jefferson smiled lazily. "Yeah. I do."_

_"Well. I'm intrigued." Madison leaned in, eyebrows arched._

_Jefferson narrowed his eyes. He'd had too much wine. "Can I ask a question?"_

_"Yes."_

_"If I told you this someone isn't a woman," Jefferson drawled, closing a few more inches between them, "What would you say?"_

_Madison's reaction wasn't quite what Jefferson had anticipated._

_A slow smile._

_A slow, easy smile._

_"I would say that we have even more in common than I knew."_

_Jefferson split into a grin, easing his way closer until there was barely any gap between them at all. He was not necessarily the picture of grace— clumsily throwing his left leg across Madison, propping himself up on his knees, bracing himself on the couch's arm and its back, sliding one hand down just enough to meet Madison's chest above his heart —but it all worked well enough to get him in just the position he'd been wanting and wanting and wanting for months. "Can I ask you for something stupid?"_

_"Hmm." Madison raised an eyebrow. "Yes."_

_Jefferson leaned in. Closed his eyes. "Permission to prove you even more right."_

_There was a moment's pause. "Granted."_

_Jefferson closed the gap._

_Pressed his lips to Madison's._

_He was perfection._

_He was perfection._

_This was perfection._

 

 

It shatters.

The glass slips from his hands, water flowing over the ground and through the crevices between each faded tile. It fills the cracks in the surface. It carries the broken glass like a fleet of ships on a river, some hitting their target in the blood that now dots Jefferson's feet.

It's been almost two days since he's had anything to eat or drink. Even with a broken clock, he can tell that much.

But it doesn't matter now.

The water he'd poured would have tasted like metallic Sauvignon Blanc, anyway.

Jefferson supposes he should clean the glass, sweep the floor, put another cup under the faucet and try to drink.

Instead he sits.

Down.

On.

The tiles.

The glass.

The river.

Fractured.

 

 

_Jefferson had seen his fair share of bookstores. He had been inside his fair share, purchased from his fair share, worked in his fair share, and donated to his fair share, to be sure. Hell, he'd even considered making a social experiment of himself and_ living _in a bookstore. After all, there was something inherently beautiful about the existence of such a place— anyone could go there. Anyone could find comfort there. Anyone could learn there. Anyone could get lost in there._

_And it was all centered around_ books.

_If anything felt like heaven, it was looking at the pages of a book and feeling that inexplicable connection between language and emotion._

_Well._

_If anything felt like heaven, it was looking at Madison beside him, doing just that._

_Madison had been much quicker to agree to Jefferson's suggestion that they go book shopping than he had been to agree to his offer to go clothes shopping, although they had eventually decided to do both. Jefferson's reasoning had been persuasive enough, he supposed— despite their relationship having officially begun nearly three months ago at this point, he had yet to see Madison in any suit other than the mere two he deemed suitable for wearing —but his argument needed little finesse when accompanied by the onslaught of affection that Jefferson suspected was the real reason Madison had agreed to make the trip._

_Having made his rounds and plucked three or four books off the shelves to buy, Jefferson took it upon himself to tuck his soon-to-be purchases under one arm and take his camera out with his free hand. That was another thing about their trip to the department store: Jefferson had taken enough pictures of Madison and of the two of them together that he probably could have filled a small album. He'd taken pictures of Madison in outlandish and flattering suits alike, himself in bowties, the pair of them in matching jackets, the pair of them sharing a quick kiss in the dressing rooms, Madison in boots that came up to his knees, Madison pulling a rare public smile, Madison yawning, Madison laughing, Madison blushing._

_Madison._

_Jefferson switched on the camera, looking between the screen and the man standing a few feet away with his nose stuck in a book on philosophy. He smiled. Madison was perusing the book with an expression of concentration on his face, shoulders hunched under his scarf. His fingers slipped from page to page, tapping at the edges every so often._

_Jefferson took a quick picture._

_Madison glanced over, one eyebrow raising in suspicion. "I'd say 'take a picture, it'll last longer,' but I see you already did."_

_"Picture? I don't know about any picture." Jefferson looked back at Madison, feigning innocence._

_Madison raised an arm, coughing into his elbow. He looked back at Jefferson with the hint of a smirk. "Camera."_

_"What on earth is a camera?"_

_Madison raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Please."_

_Jefferson grinned, slipping the camera into Madison's outstretched hand and letting his fingers linger there a little too long. "Yes, Your Highness."_

_Madison raised the camera to eye-level, turning it towards Jefferson. "Say 'cheese'."_

_"Macar—"_

_"No macaroni, Thomas. Just say cheese."_

_Jefferson crossed his arms, clutching his books to his chest. "Cheese!"_

_The camera clicked, indicating that a picture had been taken. Jefferson squinted, attempting to reach for the camera again._

_Madison only looked at him smugly, stepping back with his finger still over the button. He managed to take a few shots of Jefferson caught off guard._

_"Okay, hold up." Jefferson chuckled, reaching out to snatch the thing. "Jemmy..."_

_"Nope," Madison chimed, snapping two or three more pictures. He was smiling now. "I want a collection, too."_

_"Touché," Jefferson replied, making another grab for the camera. "You'll fill the storage, though—"_

_"You're a politician," Madison scoffed teasingly, "You can afford a bigger memory card."_

_Jefferson's final attempt at retrieving his camera worked, and, shooting Madison a triumphant grin, he slid it back in his pocket. He glanced up and down the aisle they were standing in. It was empty. Jefferson slipped his arms around Madison. "One day, I'll buy a bigger memory card. That day is not today."_

_Madison looked up to meet his eye. "You've done enough buying for one day."_

_"And I've still got four books to pay for."_

_"Were you planning on going out to dinner?"_

_Jefferson cocked an eyebrow. "Were you?"_

_"No," Madison shrugged, "I was planning on going back to your house..."_

_"Mm hmm?" Jefferson hummed, easing into a grin._

_"Eating leftovers out of your fridge..."_

_"Okay?"_

_"And going to bed at seven-thirty."_

_"Well. I'd like that."_

_"Where we will either fall asleep immediately or keep each other company while reading."_

_Jefferson smiled. Madison had come out to him as what he'd described as grey-asexual rather early on in their relationship, which, to even Jefferson's own surprise, hadn't actually been a big deal. If sex was important to him, Madison's intellect and his humor and his eyes and his personality and his overall perfection were his whole world. Jefferson could live with a relatively inactive sex life if it meant he was lucky enough to call Madison his own, and if tonight was a night for falling asleep together or reading until their eyes fell shut, that was more than enough for him to be happy._

_"Sounds perfect." Jefferson pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head. "I should go pay for these books so we can get home."_

_Madison stepped back, taking the books from Jefferson as he did. "They'll be on me."_

_"I'll pay you back."_

_"The only payment I need is for you to let me borrow another one of your sweatshirts for the weekend."_

_Jefferson grinned, batting his eyelashes only half-jokingly. "Anything you need, baby."_

 

 

Fractured.

Jefferson's face is in his hands. He doesn't _want_ to watch anything. He doesn't _want_ to see the world. He doesn't _want_ to see the broken glass around him. He doesn't _want_ to see the camera smashed to a pulp in the bottom of his suitcase.

He just wants to sit.

Down.

On.

The tiles.

The glass.

The river.

Fractured.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ready for shit to hit the fan for real?
> 
> Good, 'cause I sure am. Just you wait. >:) Comments and kudos make me the happiest Poet on earth!


	5. Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The outside world? What?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.

_Total number of missed calls: one-hundred-thirty-nine._

_George Washington: twenty-three._

_Aaron Burr: sixteen._

_Angelica Schuyler: twenty-nine._

_John Adams: eight._

_Alexander Hamilton: twelve._

_Nelly Madison: fifty-one._

Jefferson stares at the screen. The brightness is all the way down, but it doesn't matter— the shades and the lights in the room are, too, so it's like looking into the sun.

He squints.

It hurts to look at the light.

It hurts to look at the names.

And the _numbers_. Jefferson scrolls through the list, eyes darting from name to name to number to number.

_So many calls._

His texts are flooded, too. It's like all of the capital city joined together just to berate him.

_Where are you? Are u okay?_ Washington.

_I saw the newspaper. I'm sorry._ Burr.

_Did YOU die, now? What the fuck? Answer._ Angelica.

_Have you checked your email? We've all been looking for you?_ Adams.

_First Madison, now you? You owe us all a big fucking explanation Jefferson._ Hamilton.

_Come back. Please._ Nelly.

Jefferson had avoided his phone entirely aside from his one call with Burr. He thumbed through more texts.

_I didn't know about him. I'm sorry. Please call me, ok son? His mother, too?_ Washington.

_Everyone's worried. Call me again. And call Nelly._ Burr.

_Listen I'm sorry and I know it's hard but if you could pick up your goddamn phone and call one of us? That'd be great. Call Mrs. Madison._ Angelica.

_I heard what happened. Call home. His mother's worried sick. That was insensitive wording. Sorry. You know._ Adams.

_If u don't answer your phone you fucking prick I'm finding ur sorry ass and drop kicking u into next week got it you piece of shit? CALL US. CALL NELLY MADISON._ Hamilton.

_Thomas?_ Nelly.

Thomas.

It's been so long since he's been Thomas.

The phone screen fades back to black.

He fucking hates Thomas.

The room is almost silent, for once. The traffic outside is muffled and soft, a low whisper set to remind him how far he is from home. This whisper is a new kind of comfort. It follows him through restless days and nights, creeping between his dreams and hiding behind every shadow. An old, familiar face. He's miles and miles away. He's alone. He's temporary. He's nothing.

He likes it that way now.

But now his phone is erupting into vibration and ceaseless ringing.

And it's her.

He's alone.

_Nelly Madison._

He's temporary.

_Come back. Please._

He's nothing.

_Thomas?_

He can't.

He can't.

He can't.

The call goes unanswered.

Jefferson stands, tossing the phone against the wall. He hopes it doesn't shatter.

He is so tired of shattering.

It takes effort, but he hauls himself up and staggers to the table with a hint of a limp. His feet are still cut and raw from the glass he'd dropped and the carpet does little to soothe the pain. It doesn't bother him. It's a distraction. He just needs a distraction.

And that's exactly what he's looking for when he spots the perfect one.

_Food._

The wrappers from the last few protein bars in his stash are where he left them on the table. He can't remember when he ate the bars, but he's pretty sure it was only a few hours ago when he threw them up. So it's fair to say it's been at least a full day since he's really had anything to eat or drink. Even with a broken clock, he could tell that much. There's a moldy and rotten tomato by the discarded protein bar box, and, perhaps a foot away, there's a box of cheap macaroni and cheese.

Jefferson considers the macaroni for a moment. Boiling it is out of the question with no hot water. He would call room service, but the room's phone officially broke a day or two ago. He could just tear open the box and eat its contents uncooked— stranger things have happened, after all, and uncooked macaroni can't be inedible.

He is about to do it.

But the coffeemaker is crackling again.

The vent is blowing cold air.

The sink is dripping in the bathroom.

And _his_ voice is back in Jefferson's ear.

He pulls on the nearest pair of shoes.

Fumbles for his room key.

Grabs his wallet from the bed.

Lurches back into the corner to pocket his phone.

Jefferson leaves the room.

 

 

  
The door is heavier than he remembers. It clicks shut and locks behind him, pushing him further into the abyss of unsightly carpeting and splattered beige walls that is the hallway. There's a sign mounted at a slight slant on the wall opposite him— it has an arrow on each edge and in between these arrows are numbers.

He finds what he's looking for in the elevator symbol at the bottom. The arrow beside it points left.

Jefferson follows it.

The carpet and the beige seem to stretch on for miles. Maybe he's just walking slowly. It doesn't matter. It's a distraction. He just needs a distraction.

Eventually, however, he reaches his destination.

A smudged, rusting metallic door is pushed haphazardly into the wall, a single flickering button beside it. The wallpaper seems to object rather vehemently to the placement of both of these things, peeling unceremoniously around both to reveal cracking plaster underneath. Jefferson presses the button and waits. Certainly the view is ugly— the hotel is decaying. That's the simple truth and Jefferson has no trouble accepting it. He's decaying, too. It's almost like an unconventional type of solidarity.

There is a high-pitched _ding_ that sounds from the door before it creaks and heaves itself open to reveal a cramped metal box within. The walls are paneled with clouded mirrors.

Jefferson sees himself.

_He_ is decaying.

Something repulses him. He's emaciated, hollowing, gaunt. His skin is pasty and dry all at once. His hair is disheveled, a knotted mess, and a dusting of gray stems from his roots. His stubble has grown out of control. His shirt hangs off his bones where it used to meet muscle.

He is decaying.

He can't step in that elevator. He can't step closer to that mirror.

He can't.

He can't.

He can't.

The elevator door closes.

Jefferson walks back to the sign to find the way to the stairs.

It's a walk to the other end of the hallway, but it's worth it. The one person he passes on his way clings to the wall to avoid him. He understands why. The carpet stretches on as it did before, and Jefferson has come to rather like it— despite its hideousness, it's familiar now, and it's comforting. It guides him forwards and forwards and forwards until he's pushing open a steel door and descending an uneven staircase and passing floor after floor after floor. And, soon enough, he pushes through another door and finds himself in the lobby.

The lobby.

He's been here once or twice. He wonders if the woman at the desk even recognizes him as the same man who checked in, or if perhaps he looks to her like a deranged stranger who crept in through a basement window. She pays him no mind, however, as he exits through the main door onto the sidewalk.

Jefferson is more surprised than he ought to be to find that it is dark out.

Headlights are all he registers at first.

Then there are people.

Then there is noise.

He starts walking.

He has no idea where he's going. What streets he's crossing. What buildings he's passing. The air smells like cigarette smoke and gasoline and nighttime in the city. It doesn't bother him. It's a distraction.

He just keeps walking.

Certainly Jefferson's been to New York City before, but even after so many times, he's still surprised to see it so busy after dark. People are out, speeding like ants along the sidewalk. Cars are driving by, horns blaring like sirens. Lights are on.

_Life_ is on.

Eventually, a goal surfaces. He aims to buy food. It's about time he restocked his supply, and, from what he saw looking back at him from the mirror in the elevator, it's about time he tried to really digest some of it, too. He figures if he walks long enough, he'll find some kind of convenience store or pharmacy, and by the time he buys what he needs and walks back, the room should feel close to bearable again.

He just keeps walking.

It's another few blocks before he begins to notice that stores are closed.

He just keeps walking.

And walking.

And walking.

Jefferson passes a bar.

Lights are on.

_Life_ is on.

He pauses in front of the door. It's a sort of brew-pub place with a big wooden door and mismatched decor, at least from what he can see through the windows. It's not crowded inside, but there are people at tables and the bar looks to be open.

He looks around.

He is so tired of shattering.

He goes in.

The bar is along the side of the place, a wooden fixture crowded with stools. Currently, its only attendant is the bartender, reordering bottles with his back to the door. The lights are dim, and although Jefferson knows this is solely for ambiance, he finds it a refreshing compromise between the darkness of his hotel room and the brightness of the New York City streets.

He approaches the bar and perches on the nearest stool.

He waits.

He's chosen a decent place to celebrate his temporary reentry into the world— it's clearly the kind of place that spends more on its alcohol than its decorations. Clumsy paintings, framed dollar bills, old photographs, inexplicable trophies, and obscure knickknacks line the walls, giving the patrons at the cheap wooden tables a good view of this fractured collection. Perhaps the idea is to be drunk enough not to be bothered by it all.

"What can I get for you, _monsieur_?"

The bartender is watching him now, leaning nonchalantly against the counter behind the bar. He has a heavy French accent and his hair is pulled into a bun, curls escaping this way and that.

Jefferson shivers. When he replies, his voice is still croaky and out-of-practice, and it's all he can do not to just write his answer on a napkin and slide it over instead.

"Gin and tonic. _Lot_ of gin."

The bartender's smile borders on grim now. He nods before he turns around again.

Jefferson leans his forearms on the bar, looking down at his hands. The skin around his nails is tattered and dry. His knuckles look awkward and swollen. His hands are shaking.

Now his phone is erupting into vibration and ceaseless ringing.

He jolts, eyes widening like those of a caged animal, his hand reaching frantically for his back pocket. His stool almost tips, swaying as he struggles, fighting for the wretched thing with alarming vigor. He grasps it. Rips it out of his pocket, bringing the screen to his face with all the strength he can muster.

It isn't ringing.

There are no new messages and no missed calls.

Silence.

Same as it ever was.

Jefferson pockets it again, disgruntled. He's still shaking, folding his arms across one another on the bar in front of him, when the bartender slides a full glass in front of him with a hint of finesse. Jefferson does not match this finesse when he picks it up and spills some over the sides. He steadies his hand enough to take a sip— it's his first sip of alcohol since his arrival in New York.

Now his phone is erupting into vibration and ceaseless ringing again.

He scrambles for it, dropping his drink back on the bar with a dangerous _clink_ as he attempts to silence that damned machine. And there it is again, in his hand, in front of his eyes.

And it isn't ringing.

There are no new messages and no missed calls.

Silence.

Same as it ever was.

"You are okay, eh?"

Jefferson looks up, slipping his phone back in his pocket. He looks between his drink and the bartender, whose eyebrow is just barely arched now.

"You seem, uh..." The man gestures in a vague circle, thoughtful for a moment, "A bit out of it. Is all."

Jefferson is staring at him now. He lets out a dark sort of laugh.

"Out of it. Yeah. That's a way to say it."

The bartender crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes a bit at Jefferson. "I believe we are both needing a bit of company right now. Correct me if I am wrong?"

Jefferson looks down at his gin and tonic. He feels his phone in his pocket. He sighs, air rasping against his throat, and looks back at the bartender. "Not wrong."

The Frenchman smiles. "That is good." He reaches a hand across the bar. "My name is Gilbert. _Mes am_ — my friends, they call me Lafayette."

Jefferson is hesitant to shake his hand, but after a moment, he submits. "Gilbert. Jefferson."

"Well, Jefferson," the bartender replies, pulling back again, "You may call me Lafayette."

"Lafayette." Jefferson brings his drink to his lips. "Pleasure."

Lafayette is still smiling vaguely when he picks up a shot glass and a rag from a tray behind him. He busies himself with wiping the glass. " _Alors_. You are local, _non_?"

Jefferson shakes his head stiffly. "Here from D.C."

"Oh!" Lafayette nods. "I come here from Paris, myself. I have been to D.C., years ago, once. It is nice. Although New York City is nicer."

Jefferson watches the bartender. "I used to go to Paris on business."

Lafayette's enthusiasm is similar to that of a puppy, even despite his initial aloofness. "It is beautiful, yes? I hope to go back soon, perhaps next year. I think it is beautiful. I have come to New York to live with my, erm, my roommate, now." He seems to blush the slightest bit, but Jefferson can't be sure in such dim light. "I think it is beautiful here, too."

Jefferson nods. It _is_ beautiful, if you go outside.

"So," Lafayette redirects himself, starting to wipe another glass, "It is almost eleven of clock on a Wednesday. Forgive me for prying, but what brings you to the city? Or to here, in specific?"

Now _this_ is a question that requires thought.

A long story is far from the best way to approach it; Lafayette was right in saying that Jefferson needed company. To take a lesson from Burr, a vague answer may be best for both him _and_ the bartender, which leads him to wonder what, exactly, is just vague and just broad enough to explain why the hell he is in the city, or even in the bar.

He looks up.

"The pursuit of happiness."

Lafayette considers this. He shifts the glass to his other hand, eyeing Jefferson curiously. "The pursuit of happiness."

Jefferson nods.

"And how is this?"

He shrugs. "In New York, you can be a new man."

"Ah." Lafayette smiles. "I suppose that is why I am here then, too. The pursuit of happiness."

"It's... it's really what everyone needs on some basic level."

There's a long pause before Lafayette responds. He glances at Jefferson's glass. "The pursuit of happiness and another gin and tonic, I suppose."

Jefferson nods wordlessly, sliding the glass closer to the other man.

"So I come from Paris to here," Lafayette says over his shoulder as he prepares another drink. "I am a bartender to help pay the rent and I am an activist when the times come, you know? And now I would like to know more about you, if I may at all, _Monsieur_ Jefferson."

Here's yet another question that requires more thought than Jefferson was hoping for. Once again, the issue becomes staying on the line between too little and too much. He considers deflecting, but he isn't sure quite how, and now time is passing and Lafayette is sliding another drink in front of him and he just has to speak.

"I'm here from D.C. to forget about life for awhile. I... guess I'm a politician. Been here for a few weeks. I think. I'm _here_ 'cause I was going food shopping after I ran out but every store's closed so I kept walking and went in the first place that seemed fine."

Lafayette blinks in some sort of vague surprise. "You are drinking on an empty stomach?"

"Uhm." Jefferson furrows his brow. "I suppose."

"Oh, _non_ , let me get you something from the kitchen," Lafayette offers, shaking his head in disbelief.

Jefferson's eyes widen again. He shakes his own head in panicked refusal. "You don't need to—"

"Ah-ah." Lafayette holds up a hand to silence him, tilting his chin and slipping into an effortless smile. "I insist. We are probably having to get rid of the fries, anyways. They will be on me, _Monsieur_ Jefferson, do not worry."

He is about to turn around and head for the back of the restaurant when Jefferson reaches out an arm, sitting bolt upright on his stool. "Wait."

The bartender raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Do you"— Jefferson clears his throat —"Do you fry in peanut oil?"

Lafayette's expression softens. "Oh, you are allergic, _oui_?"

He's not sure why he asked.

He's not even sure what to say.

He shrugs, slouching over his drink again. "No. Forget it."

Lafayette seems to pause a moment before continuing on his way to the kitchen.

Jefferson's eyelids feel heavy.

They're falling.

 

_Madison hesitated. "I can pay for mine. I have to ask if... No. It's alright."_

_Jefferson shot him a curious glance. "If?"_

_"I'm— I'm allergic to peanuts," Madison replied brusquely. "I just have to ask if they use them in the kitchen or anything."_

_"Oh." Jefferson nodded. "I'll still pay for you, though, if your order isn't going to kill you?"_

_Madison stifled a chuckle. "Fair enough."_

_A smile tugged at Jefferson's lips. "Excellent."_

 

No. _Fuck_. Stay awake.

He takes a long drink of his gin and tonic. Now isn't the time for remembering. He came here to _forget_ , for Christ's sake. Didn't he? He came here to _forget_.

Maybe everyone has a tendency to forget what they remember and remember what they forget.

But Jefferson just wants to _forget_.

All of a sudden, there's a plate of fries and an excitable young bartender in front of him.

"Doing alright, _mon ami_?"

Jefferson nods. "Thank. Y...ou."

"It is nothing. Oh." Lafayette gestures towards the fries. "If you are still wondering, it is canola oil that we fry in."

"Thank you." He picks a fry up from the plate, taking a tentative bite into it. It's a bit cold, but it's palatable. Jefferson thinks he can digest it. "Could you... uh..."

"Yes?" Lafayette's demeanor is patient.

"Tell me more about your roommate?" He's having a conversation. A _conversation_.

Lafayette grins. It's now that Jefferson decides that what he saw before was definitely a blush. "His name is Hercules. He is apprentice to a tailor uptown and he is excellently sweet and kind and caring and he does not make much money but I am helping with the costs." Lafayette straightens proudly. "During the daytime I also work in one store all the way on Fifth Avenue and he visits me sometime. We work the long hours, but on some of the weekends, it is my favorite thing to do to just stay home with him."

It's all endearing and it's all charming, but Jefferson feels something catch in his chest.

Hercules is not just Lafayette's roommate.

Madison is not just Jefferson's friend.

Jefferson carefully eats another fry. "Is he your boyfriend?"

Lafayette goes ghostly pale. He is dead silent.

"It's okay. I'm... I have..." Jefferson looks away. He does _not_ want to talk about himself. "It's okay."

"It is okay?" Lafayette asks cautiously.

"Yeah."

He sighs, visibly relaxing. "Yes. My boyfriend."

Jefferson almost smiles.

" _Monsieur_ Jefferson," Lafayette begins slowly, seeming to realize something, "You started to say that you are or you have... what? Am I allowed to ask?"

No. Jefferson does _not_ want to talk about himself.

And he sure as _hell_ does _not_ want to talk about Madison.

"It is okay no matter. I am just curious, forgive me." Lafayette goes back to polishing, picking up a pint glass from the counter. "I did not mean to pry. I can sometimes do this, but I don't mean harm, I only—"

"I have someone."

Lafayette looks up at him. "Hmm?"

"In D.C. I had a... a someone." Jefferson manages. He glances into his own glass. It's almost empty.

"You did?" Lafayette smiles, but it's not with curiosity anymore. It's with hope.

"Mm."

"What was your someone like?"

Jefferson closes his eyes. The fries are tasteless at this point, but they're edible. "He's smart. And handsome. And thoughtful."

Lafayette's smile grows a little bigger. "I am sure he misses you."

Jefferson's chest cramps and his throat tightens the new knot it harbors. "I miss him."

"Well." Lafayette watches Jefferson bite into the last few fries on the plate. "You have come to New York City to make you happy, _non_? I believe that is what your someone must want. And when you go home, he will be happy, too."

Jefferson squeezes his eyes shut. The pursuit of happiness. It belongs to him as much as he belongs to it.

It is crushing him.

Now his phone is erupting into vibration and ceaseless ringing again.

Jefferson nearly spills what's left in his glass as he reaches for his pocket, his body bordering on feverish. He's shivering, paranoid, his phone is silent, there's nothing there, it's empty.

Silence.

_Same as it ever was._

Lafayette quickly takes the glass away, watching Jefferson warily until the latter deflates, shoulders sinking as he buries his face in his hands.

"Perhaps that is enough to drink," Lafayette finally soothes. "I will get you water."

"I'm alright," Jefferson replies hoarsely, lifting his head again. "I'm alright. Thank you. Thanks."

"I insist—"

"I should go. Anyway. It's late."

Lafayette shakes his head almost nervously. "Let me get you a taxi, okay?"

"Mm..."

"Here." Lafayette looks around, finding a small napkin and a pen. He scribbles in the corner to test the ink before scrawling out a phone number. "If you need to reach somebody in the city, this is my phone number. I am here every night except for Mondays, yes? Do not hesitate if you need me."

Jefferson wonders if he's dreaming.

Lafayette eyes the clock. "We are closing soon, but there is hardly people here. I will walk you out and get you a taxicab."

"You don't have to." His voice is slurred and unsure.

"I insist."

It's only a few moments to settle the check. Quite frankly, Jefferson's impressed that he remembered his wallet. After the bill is paid and Lafayette has accepted his tip, the bartender comes around the other side to walk Jefferson to the door.

It feels strange to be out of his room. It feels strange to be seeing and talking to someone. It feels strange to be taken care of.

It feels strange to shake Lafayette's hand and thank him for his kindness and wonder if they will ever meet again.

And it feels strange to get in a taxi and be on his way back to his hotel.

 

• • •

 

The room is almost silent when Jefferson returns.

The coffeemaker has stopped crackling.

The vent has stopped blowing cold air.

The sink has stopped dripping.

Almost silent.

But _his_ voice is still in Jefferson's ear.

He wants to collapse onto the bed and burrow into his cocoon of sheets and clothing. He wants to bury himself under layer upon layer and fall into a dreamless sleep that feels like oblivion. He wants to forget.

Instead, he marches to his nightstand.

On its surface is a notepad— the cheaply-made kind that comes in every standard hotel room and has the company logo in the corner —and a pen. He sits down on the edge of the bed and clicks the pen open.

_His_ voice is still in Jefferson's ear.

He begins to write.

_Dear James,_

The ink won't work.

_My dearest, Jemmy,_

The noise is back.

_My love,_

The dark is back.

_I love you._

Same as it ever was.

_I love you._

Same as it ever was.

_I love you._

Same as it ever was.

_Come back. Please._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter ;) that's all I'm gonna tell you. Seriously-- comments and kudos are what makes it all worth it. It's been a miserable week and it would make me so happy (and so inclined to update ;P) to hear from you! <3


	6. Fractured III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things Are Not Going So Well Anymore In This Fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for these last 4 chapters. Enjoy!

_To Jefferson's delight, few days went by without the pleasure of Madison's company. Although the man still lived a bit far for his liking, he deflected every suggestion to move to a house closer by, so Jefferson settled into satisfaction in Madison's frequent visits._

_And they were, indeed, frequent, if not constant. Madison spent many days and nights at Jefferson's abode, whiling away the hours with whatever happened to strike their fancy at any particular time. Sometimes, a lazy day spent in bed could be arranged, while other days, work allowed for only a dinner or a quick rendezvous in the afternoon. Nevertheless, Jefferson endeavored to devote as much time as possible to Madison. And in this goal he was relentlessly persistent, as was Madison, for his part. Although the latter was grateful for privacy, he grew increasingly more attached to Jefferson with each passing day, as Jefferson did to him._

_Attachment._

_That was one way to put it._

_Being a romantic on some fundamental level, however, Jefferson much preferred the word love. And, if he had ever known it, this was, indeed, love. What else could he blame for the feeling of all-eclipsing bliss he felt in Madison's company? What else could he blame for the inevitable ache he felt when they were apart for too long? What else could he blame for the desire to have and to hold Madison, and only Madison, for as long as his heart kept beating and the clock kept ticking?_

_Jefferson loved him._

_And he wasn't afraid to call this by its name._

_"I love you."_

_Madison looked up from his bowl of soup and his newspaper, expression blank. "What?"_

_"Just said I love you," Jefferson repeated, stopping his sweeping of the kitchen floor to lean on his broom._

_"That's three times in the past hour," Madison observed dryly before cracking a light smile. "Love you, too."_

_Jefferson grinned, humming as he resumed his sweeping. The kitchen wasn't too much of a mess, but he had attended far too many meetings this past week and had far too little time or motivation to do any cleaning. Now that it was the weekend, he finally had time to recharge and reorganize. And, as for Madison, the weekend provided a brief resting period, which would hopefully prove to be helpful in easing his perpetual head cold._

_Speaking of which: "How're you feeling?"_

_Madison didn't look up this time as he brought another spoonful of broth to his lips. "Imagine getting to experience all the worst parts of hell without having to travel there, because Satan has been kind enough to bring all nine circles directly to your lungs."_

_"I'm sorry," Jefferson soothed, emptying the dustpan into the trash can. "How's the soup?"_

_Madison nodded. "Exponentially more pleasant."_

_Jefferson had never been the best at taking care of anyone who was sick. But, for Madison's sake, he tried his hardest to make an exception. Whenever he could, he did anything in his power to help Madison feel better, whether it meant interrupting his work to assist him or just letting him rest. Today, it had meant making some soup and supplying him with the comfiest blanket Jefferson's home had to offer._

_"Mind if I turn on the radio?"_

_Madison shook his head, turning the page of his newspaper._

_Jefferson flipped the power switch on the radio he kept on the kitchen counter, adjusting the volume to a comfortable degree. "Good?"_

_Madison briefly considered the tune that now swept through the kitchen. "Good. Thank you."_

_Jefferson leaned the broom against the counter by the radio, crossing to the dishwasher and the sink to begin tending to the dishes that had been piling up._

_"Can I... help you? Clean?"_

_He glanced back over his shoulder at Madison. "Nope. You're perfect as y'are."_

_"I feel guilty just sitting here." Madison coughed into his fist._

_Jefferson smiled. "Don't. I've got it."_

_Turning his attention back to the plate he had picked up, Jefferson fell into an easy rhythm of scrubbing dishes and loading them into the dishwasher as the radio supplied a mellow backdrop to the scene._

_Even at such an unimportant and uneventful moment, the effect of Madison's presence was always evident in Jefferson's mood. Just being in the same place at the same time was enough to soothe him and lighten his spirits. With Madison, comfortable silence was beyond comfortable. It, along with every other state of being that Jefferson was lucky enough to share with him, was not only comfortable, but_ _comfort_ ing.

_Jefferson couldn't help but smile to himself. He was unfathomably lucky to be alive in time to know and cherish life with Madison._

_It was at this point that Jefferson noticed that the radio had switched songs._

Somewhere beyond the sea

Somewhere, waiting for me

My lover stands on golden sands

And watches the ships

That go sailin'...

_Jefferson tucked the bowl he had just rinsed into the dishwasher, suddenly splitting into a grin. He made his way to the radio, turning the volume dial up before walking to Madison's chair and slipping an arm around the man's shoulders._

It's far beyond a star

It's near beyond the moon...

_"May I have this dance, Mr. Madison?"_

_Madison looked up from his newspaper in an endearing sort of exasperation, folding the thing and allowing Jefferson to take his hand and guide him up and to the center of the kitchen._

_Jefferson rested his arms gently around Madison's neck, sliding a bit closer to him upon feeling the man's arms around his waist. Although he had never come anywhere close to being a good dancer, Jefferson's simple swaying and patternless steps worked perfectly well for Madison's general lack of stamina (and his own lack of skill)._

_Jefferson grinned, leading Madison in what seemed to be some clumsy, impromptu waltz. He closed his eyes smugly, singing along to the best of his abilities. "We'll meet beyond the shore... We'll kiss, just as before... Happy we'll be beyond the sea..."_

_Madison laughed, resting his head against Jefferson's chest so that the two were engaged in a half-dance, half-embrace now. "It's a wonder you didn't pursue a musical career."_

_Jefferson chuckled. "The opera houses rejected me, I suppose."_

_"I'd see you as more of a jazz singer."_

_"A jazz singer," Jefferson mused._

_"Mm hmm."_

_"... we'll meet, I know we'll meet beyond the shore..."_

_Madison hugged him the slightest bit tighter._

_"We'll kiss just as before..." Jefferson pressed a light kiss to the top of Madison's head. "Happy we'll be beyond the sea... And never again I'll go sailin'..."_

_The dishes and the newspaper largely forgotten, Jefferson held Madison close long past the song's end._

 

 

Jefferson rolls over, groaning into the tangle of sheets before burrowing deeper into it.

He doesn't know what time it is.

He doesn't care.

 

 

_And so the days and weeks passed by, Madison taking up much welcome space in Jefferson's mind, his heart, and his home. Although the beginning of his campaign was still a matter of the future, Jefferson found his workload increasing— the number of hours spent conferring with other politicians and attending meetings was growing by the day. Oftentimes, he would come home to find Madison asleep in his bed or reading on his couch. Both sights never failed to calm Jefferson's nerves enough to persuade him to join his partner._

_Writing became necessity, and Jefferson had come to spend hours at a time sitting in his study and tapping away at his laptop. There was less time to spend with Madison and less time to waste, but he did all he could, and there was still enough time for him to go to bed most nights by Madison's side and wake to find him peacefully asleep in the morning sunlight._

_On one of the nights Jefferson found himself working into the ungodly hours of the morning, however, he was interrupted by a noise from down the hall. Normally, this would not have bothered him at all, but given that Madison was supposed to be asleep at this time, it was enough to compel him to abandon his work temporarily in order to investigate._

_Jefferson left his study cautiously, walking as softly as he could across the hardwood floor until he had reached the bathroom door._

_Coughing._

_Violent coughing._

_Jefferson's breath hitched in panic._

_His knuckles hovered by the door nervously, contemplating knocking. The coughing seemed to have stopped, but the sound still rang in Jefferson's ears. What if something had happened to Madison? What if the door was jammed shut? What if—_

_The door swung open._

_Madison jumped._

_"Thomas." He straightened, looking at Jefferson in surprise. "Are you okay?"_

_Jefferson blinked disbelievingly. "Am I okay?" He let out a short and humorless laugh. "Are_ you _okay?"_

_"I'm fine," Madison replied stiffly._

_"That didn't sound fine."_

_"You're overtired."_

_"I'm_ worried. _"_

 _"I'm_ fine. _" Madison's voice was sharp. Cold._

_Jefferson eyed him suspiciously for another moment. "Are y—"_

_"Come to bed, Thomas, relax."_

_Jefferson sighed. For all his stubbornness, it hadn't taken much for Madison to have him wrapped around one finger. He was helpless._

_God, Jefferson loved him._

_And he wasn't afraid to call this by its name._

_"Only 'cause I love you." Grudgingly, Jefferson allowed Madison to lead him down the hall to his bedroom._

_Madison coughed feebly, shooting Jefferson a tired smile. "Love you, too."_

 

 

The light is pouring in. Jefferson can't recall why the blinds are open, but it is midday, and the light is pouring in and disrupting his sleep.

The ballpoint pen has left a dark stain on the bedsheets where its ink has spilled by his hand.

A stray piece of uncooked pasta is under his shin.

He doesn't want to be awake.

He doesn't want to remember.

 

 

_"You're perfect," Jefferson whispered into Madison's neck, leaning in to press his lips to cold skin. "You're perfect... you're so perfect..."_

_"Thomas." Madison closed his eyes. "Come closer."_

_Jefferson smiled, shifting his hips a little lower before finding Madison's lips with his own. A rough kiss followed, Jefferson's hands gliding along whatever smooth skin he could reach. The sheets slipped lower around them, although neither man seemed to notice or care. Jefferson sat back to shoot Madison a quick look._

_That turned into a stare, complete with a dopey grin._

_"Doing okay?"_

_Madison looked back up at him. He was small, and his characteristic marks of sleep deprivation were as dark as they ever were in the morning sunlight that streamed through the window onto Jefferson's bed, but_ fuck. _He looked stunning. He looked godly._ _He looked like perfection._

 _He_ was _perfection_.

_"Yeah." Madison patted the mattress weakly, inviting Jefferson back down. "Doing excellent."_

_"Yeah." Jefferson obliged, easing himself back down to kiss a line down Madison's chest. "Yeah."_

_Madison shivered, threading his fingers through the other man's hair. He coughed._

_"Do you remember?" Jefferson's voice came between his kisses, lips scaling as much of Madison as he could get to without climbing off him completely._

_Madison coughed again. "What?"_

_"Today," Jefferson singsonged into Madison's stomach. He slid up, nuzzling the spot in the center of the man's chest, prodding there lightly with his nose until Madison couldn't help but break down into a fit of laughter._

_"Thomas, I swear—"_

_"You swear, huh?" Jefferson teased. He pulled himself up, sitting back between Madison's legs before slipping his hands behind his love's back and pulling him gently upright. His forehead came to rest against Jefferson's own. "Remember what today is?"_

_Madison's eyebrows furrowed in thought. "Sunday."_

_"Not wrong." Jefferson smiled. "But keep thinking."_

_"Um..." God, Madison was adorable. Everything about him— from his intellect to his humor to his posture to his eyes to his smile to every inch of skin on his body —was perfection. He was perfection. "Shit."_

_"No, no," Jefferson crooned, brushing his lips against Madison's teasingly. "How long have we been together?"_

_"Well, starting in November... So..." Madison thought for another moment before his eyes widened. "Oh."_

"Six months today." Jefferson grinned.

 _"_ Oh. _" Madison trailed his fingers gently down Jefferson's spine, then back up again. "Six months."_

_"It's something of an anniversary," Jefferson replied, lifting a hand to tilt Madison's chin just a little to the side so he could kiss underneath._

_"Anniversary... Right... Oh. Shit, you're not expecting a card or something, are you?" Madison tensed. His grip on Jefferson's shoulder tightened. "I didn't get you a gift or anything, shit..."_

_Jefferson laughed into Madison's neck. "Don't sweat it. You're enough of a gift alone."_

_At this, Madison pulled back entirely, locking eyes with him before locking lips instead._

_This went on for another blissful moment._

_This was perfection._

_And, although Jefferson was hesitant to stop the kiss, he managed eventually to do just this, and to begin talking._

_"James, I didn't get you a gift or a card or anything 'cause that's a one-year-anniversary thing as far as I'm concerned and I want more time to plan what I want to give you." He cleared his throat. Speaking had never been his strong suit, but it wasn't public, and he'd been thinking about what he wanted to say for almost a week now, and it was for Madison, so he plowed on. "But I figured I'd use this as some opportunity, right? Okay."_

_Madison was watching him with a vague smile. He coughed, his lips still pressed together._

_"Okay. Well. I never would've thought after that first time you called me that I'd ever be..." Jefferson gestured humorously at their positioning— him on top of Madison, both of them tangled in Jefferson's bedsheets —"Here. Like this. With you. But you're... I'm..."_

_Shit, he had rehearsed and everything, and yet here he was, drawing a blank._

_Improvise._

_"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me and I don't care if that's a cliché," he rambled, determined if anything. "You're this incredible, intelligent, absolute genius, and your eyes are the sweetest things, and your smile, and I can't believe it's been six months already and time goes by before there's ever enough of it and I want to spend it all with you and I'm still so apart from you and..." He paused for a breath, inhaling shakily, "Jemmy. It's been half a year now and just seeing you and being with you and being yours's been the source of so much happiness, you don't even..." Jefferson laughed at this, breathing out shallowly. "You don't even know. You've been this pillar of support to me since we met and I could never give that up, you know? I trust you to take care of me when you don't even know you're what I need. I'm yours. I'm so yours."_

_Madison stared at him, eyes wide, hands at Jefferson's sides._

_"I love you. I want you to move in with me."_

_Madison froze._

_Shit._

_"Thomas." He shook his head ever so slightly, looking down. Shrinking back into himself. Shit. "I'd need time to... and I'd need to sell... I can't just..."_

_"I'd help you move," Jefferson offered, attempting to tilt Madison's head back up to look at him. "I'd cover costs. I'd do it all for you; you spend so much time over here already—"_

_"Yeah, yeah," Madison was still tensing. Shit. Shit. Shit. "I don't need to move in to see you more, okay? I live nearby, I'm always over anyway, I..."_

_"That's the thing," Jefferson insisted, "You practically live with me already. Why can't we make it official? Why can't you sleep here every night? Why—"_

_"It's so much effort for so little change." Madison crossed his arms over his chest._

_"It'll be no effort at all. I'll do the work. I'll make it so easy..."_

_"Thomas, I can't." Madison's voice went flat, cold. He coughed into his elbow, a hacking sound that ground against Jefferson's ears and tied an uneasy knot in his stomach. "I can't."_

_"Okay, okay." Jefferson nodded, glancing away. Just buying a gift would have been easier. "Will you tell me why, though?"_

_"I can't."_

_"If it's about mental health, I can give you your own room and your own section of the house. How's that? You don't have to come out all the time, just living under my_ roof _is enough for—"_

_"I can't."_

_"Is it publicity? We don't have to tell anyone. Nobody needs to know. It's irrelevant."_

_"I can't."_

_"Jemmy."_

_Madison stared him down icily for a solid few seconds._

_Jefferson would have withered if he had had less resolve._

_Finally, the former released a breath, shoulders sinking into a defeated sigh. "You're not going to like this."_

_"I love you."_

_Madison pursed his lips, eyeing Jefferson hesitantly. "My health."_

_Jefferson's eyebrows tightened into a stiff line._

_"Isn't in... Good condition. To say the least."_

_Jefferson froze._

_Shit._

_Madison went on. "It's nothing terrible, I just... I can't. Okay? I can't."_

_Jefferson nodded. He nodded. He nodded. "Okay. Okay."_

_"Jesus, don't get worried. Just... We're okay." Madison managed a smile. "I love you, too."_

_"Okay." Jefferson leaned forward again, easing Madison back into his arms. "Okay."_

_A long pause followed, sometime in the middle of which Madison slipped his arms around Jefferson to return the embrace._

_Jefferson closed his eyes, turning so his lips were right by Madison's ear. "Can I ask you for something stupid?"_

_"Anything you want. Thomas."_

_Jefferson smiled. "Permission to take a picture with you. Right here."_

_Madison laughed. "Well, I've been better dressed..."_

_"You're not_ even _dressed," Jefferson protested teasingly, pressing a quick kiss to Madison's temple. "Besides, we'll pull the sheets up, anyway."_

_"Okay, fair enough. Sure."_

_Jefferson grinned, getting up as lightly as he could. "Be right back."_

_"I hope you're storing these photos somewhere," Madison called after him, reclining again and pulling the sheets back around his shoulders._

_"I thought you had them all saved somewhere."_

_"Okay,_ I _do, but you should, too. They're_ your _brilliant photography."_

 _"So sweet of you,_ _baby. I'll send them in to_  Time Magazine _if they're that brilliant."_

_Madison rolled his eyes, turning over to press his face into Thomas's pillow. This rather effectively muffled his reply. "I love you."_

_"I love you, too." Jefferson smiled, tugging the camera's wrist strap over his hand. "Now get ready, I want to take the perfect shot for our cover article."_

 

 

Jefferson can't recall when or how the camera broke in his suitcase, and he can't quite bring himself to care, either.

The sun is setting outside.

 

 

_"I'm sorry, Mr. Hamilton," Jefferson replied dully, holding his phone between his shoulder and ear, "But someone's got to remind you that when something's your belief, it doesn't automatically make it right."_

_"Mr. Jefferson, neither one of us holds an office yet. I'm only saying that, given the contrast between our campaigns, we should bear in mind how our actions and our thoughts affect the people we'll be leading if and when we're elected—"_

_"Please, Mr. Hamilton, don't forget to take a breath when you talk."_

_Hamilton's irritation was practically tangible. The phone call had been going on for nearly an hour, and Jefferson's own exasperation was beyond typical limits. He wasn't sure the floor of his study could take much more of his incessant pacing. Hamilton sniffed indignantly. "Don't be condescending because you're only jealous."_

_"Jealous?" Jefferson scoffed. "Jealous of_ Alexander Hamilton _, a man I've never agreed with or actually_ liked _once in my life? Jealo—"_

_Coughing._

_Violent coughing._

_Jefferson stiffened. "Excuse me."_

_He ended the call, pocketing his phone and heading at a run down the hall to the bathroom door._

_Coughing._

_Coughing._

_Violent coughing._

_"James, let me in." Jefferson knocked on the door, pressing his ear to it. "James. Open the door. Please."_

_"I'm fine. I'm fine." The reply was faint and hoarse, giving way almost immediately to more wretched coughing._

_"Let me in! James!" Jefferson hit the door again hysterically. What if something had happened to Madison? What if the door was jammed shut? What if—_

_"I'm fine, Thomas, I'm fine..."_

_"Jemmy, you sound terrible, just let me help—"_

_The door swung open, slamming against the wall. Madison leaned on the sink._

_The evidence of his coughing was deep red on the white towel in his hands._

_Jefferson froze._

_Shit._

_"It's fine, I'm fine." Madison shook his head, holding a hand out to dissuade Jefferson from coming any closer. His efforts were fruitless._

_"No." Jefferson walked tentatively over the threshold, looking between Madison and the towel. "No. No. No, that's not fine."_

_"Thomas. It's just—"_

_"How long has this been going on?" Jefferson's voice was barely a whisper. His eyes were wide. Fearful. Terrified._

_"Thomas..."_

_"How long?"_

_Madison looked away, inhaling shallowly. "I don't know."_

_"You don't know."_

_"Thomas, relax—"_

_"Relax?"_

_"Relax."_

_Jefferson was shaking. "No."_

_"Thomas—"_

_"Stop." His head was beginning to throb, his heartbeat drumming in his temples. "You should've told me. You should've told me."_

_"I didn't want you to overreact."_

_"_ Overreact _?" Jefferson's voice cracked. "What the_ _fuck does that mean? How am I_ supposed _to react? What did you expect, for me to just say, like, 'oh, James, I guess this means you need a doctor! May as well go call one! And I'll just make you some tea! We'll have a conversation about it! It's just a little blood!' Huh? That it?"_

_Madison trembled, his shoulders weak. "Privacy."_

_"'Privacy,'" Jefferson repeated hollowly. "There's a difference between letting you have your privacy and having this"— he gestured vaguely at the towel —"hidden from me."_

_"Thomas. I'm sorry." Madison shot him a glance. "But will you calm down. For one. Second."_

_Jefferson was shaking. His bones felt unhinged. His mind felt unhinged. "I'm sorry."_

_He was afraid._

_He was terrified._

_His voice felt heavy in his throat. "I'm sorry."_

_Madison squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his chin even further. His breath came at sharp, uneven intervals. "I'm sorry."_

 

 

Jefferson supposes he has to go out again and actually buy food this time.

He wonders why he always has this thought after dark.

 

 

_"They only want to verify the test results from your last visit." Jefferson squeezed Madison's hand, looking at him as if nothing and no one else in the waiting room was worth casting his eyes on. "That's what Dr. Montgomery said on the phone yesterday."_

_"But he didn't say anything about results so far." Madison's lips were pulled into a thin line._

_Jefferson hesitated. "No." He ran his thumb absentmindedly along Madison's ring finger. "But that's what we're gonna hear about today, yeah?"_

_Madison nodded weakly. "Yeah."_

_A long moment of silence passed._

_Jefferson held onto Madison's hand like a lifeline._

_"You're gonna be okay."_

_Madison closed his eyes, nodding once more. "Yeah."_

_A door on the wall to the couple's left popped open to reveal a nurse bearing a clipboard. She scanned the waiting room expectantly. "James Madison?"_

_Jefferson squeezed his hand again. "You're gonna be okay. I promise."_

_"You're not coming?" Madison's voice caught._

_He shook his head. "Doctor's orders. Only you."_

_Madison's eyes were wide with panic, but he nodded nonetheless. "Okay."_

_"Love you."_

_The nurse led Madison beyond the door._

_Jefferson was alone._

_He was afraid._

_He was terrified._

 

 

There's no point in getting up. The city is awake and buzzing outside, but he's exhausted. The sheets are warm. He's comfortable.

He does not get up.

 

 

_Jefferson spent hours in the waiting room. Patients flowed in and out, a steady stream, but Madison remained beyond the doors through it all._

_Every magazine had been perused, every pamphlet had been read, and every sign had been examined before Madison reemerged._

_And, eventually, he did reemerge._

_The door opened, a stone-faced Madison silhouetted against harsh LED lights on the other side. A doctor behind him. A hollowness in his footsteps._

_An emptiness in his eyes._

_He said nothing._

_He only approached._

_Madison wrapped his arms around Jefferson. Shaking. Weak. Lifeless. He buried his face in Jefferson's chest._

_Silence._

_The doctor spoke, but it was as though he was underwater— his sentences were blurred. Incomprehensible. Unimaginable. And Jefferson didn't need to hear a word of it to know what was being said. He only needed Madison shaking in his arms. He only needed the feeling of grimness. He only needed the tears pooling in his own eyes and pouring unceremoniously down his cheeks._

_There are moments that the words don't reach._

_There is suffering too terrible to name._

_Jefferson held Madison as tight as he could._

_He tried to push away the unimaginable._

_The incomprehensible._

_The inevitable._

 

 

Jefferson sits bolt upright, suddenly overcome with racking coughs that sting against his raw throat and burn his lungs like wildfire. The dust in the hotel room must have triggered this, especially considering the likelihood that a thick layer of dust is embedded in the sheets.

It burns.

He wants to burn.

He wishes this was disease. He wishes this was the end and that it was him, instead, take Jefferson, instead. Take Jefferson.

Let him burn.

The guilt burns.

The grief burns.

The unimaginable burns.

He just wants to burn.

He wishes this was disease. He wishes it would swallow him whole and spit him out as just a body to be buried or a body to be burned.

He wishes it could have been him.

He wants to burn.

He wants to burn.

He can't.

He can't.

_He can't._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make me the happiest Poet ever. I'd love to hear from you, and I respond to every single one. <3


	7. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, but it's intense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments I've gotten from y'all and your unfathomable kindness have made these past few weeks bearable. Thank you. Enjoy!

"Jefferson?"  
  
Jefferson takes a long breath, leaning limply back against the bed's headboard. "Hamilton."

" _Jefferson_." The phone makes a staticky noise that Jefferson can only assume is Hamilton's preparatory inhale.

He is correct in this assumption.

"You answered your phone."

Jefferson chews his thumbnail absentmindedly. "Yes."

"'Yes.' 'Yes,' that's your answer." Hamilton's tone is dangerous. "Don't pretend like this isn't a big deal. _Don't_ you pretend."

"Hamilton..."

"No. You run away to _God only knows where_ , you answer _no one_ for _weeks_ aside from one half-assed phone call with Burr, you completely abandon your life as you damn well know it, and you have the _audacity_ to act nonchalant. _No_."

Jefferson flinches. Hamilton continues.

"You're gonna explain _everything_ to me, right here, right now."

"You're my rival."

Hamilton let out a sharp, grating laugh. "You're the world's most insufferable scumbag. And I'm demanding that you fucking explain yourself, not just for my sake, but for the people back here you call your _friends_ and for the people back here who, for some unfathomable reason, _give a shit_ about you."

Jefferson considers this. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "I didn't think you _gave a shit._ "

" _Oh_?" Hamilton sounds beyond incredulous. " _I_ get it. You think you can just disappear for weeks after— no. You know what? No. Just tell me where you are."

_New York City._

All he has to say is _New York City._

"I left," he answers instead.

" _Yeah_ ," Hamilton sneers, "Yeah, you left. I got that part. Got it. Where the fuck did you go?"

"It doesn't matter."

Hamilton pauses, clearly exasperated. His voice tenses. " _Jefferson_."

Jefferson leans his head back against the wall, his neck tilted such that the cracked ceiling is in view. "Mm."

"The parlor keeps calling my house and asking where you are." Hamilton's tone seems to soften for just a moment. "He wasn't _my_ boyfriend."

" _Stop_."

"No. No. I'm not picking up slack for you anymore. Tell me what the _fuck_ is going on."

Jefferson grips a fistful of his sheets, squeezing his eyes shut. He is shaking. His hands. His legs. His core. His insides. He is filling with static.

Fucking static.

"I can't."

"I'm not accepting 'I can't' as an answer anymore. Burr might, who knows, but it's gone too far. You have to talk. You _have_ to."

"I can't."

"How do you expect to cope if you can't even admit it happened?" Hamilton raises his voice. It's sharp and cutting. "You're alone already, Jefferson. There's no point in isolating yourself."

Silence.

Same as it ever was.

"You're alone. Get. Fucking. _Used to it._ "

It burns.

He wants to burn.

"Listen." Hamilton sighs. "I've lost people. I fought in a war. I lost friends. I lost commanders. I lost— I lost _close friends_. And you know what you have to do when it happens?"

The vent is blowing cold air. Jefferson is sweating nonetheless.

"You get used to it. You figure out how to deal with it." Hamilton pauses. "You keep living."

Silence.

Same as it ever was.

"You keep living, okay?" Hamilton's voice has gotten quieter. It's almost an offbeat sort of sympathetic, as if it's through a kaleidoscope. "You're not living, Jefferson."

There's a haze between when Jefferson first arrived in New York and the present, but there are some things that are seared so deep into his memory that they transcend this foggy in-between.

He remembers the aches.

He remembers the inability to control how his muscles clenched and unclenched, captive to his wrenching sobs.

He remembers the bruises on his skin, the walls and the furniture and the floor meeting his fists and his feet with reckless abandon.

He remembers depriving himself.

He remembers destroying himself.

He remembers.

Hamilton speaks again. "You're not living."

He remembers Hamilton, now. A man who buries himself in distractions, a man who meets life with the same morbidly curious enthusiasm with which he meets death, a man who is poisoned by his own pursuits and his own imprisonment.

"Neither are you."

"Oh. _I'm_ not." A man who is unwilling to face his emptiness. "No. _I'm_ not the one who ran away once _one thing_ went wrong. _I'm_ not the one who's in denial. _I'm_ not the one who needs to get my shit together. _I_ cope. _I_ write. _I_ contribute. _I_ work."

"You hide in your work."

"I _hide_?" Hamilton's voice is almost shrill. "I stay alive. I have a life. I have a wife and children—"

Jefferson feels a dull pang in his chest. " _Classy_ , Hamilton."

"I didn't mean— shit." He takes a short breath. "This isn't about me. You have to pick yourself up and _try_ instead of running away."

Jefferson does not reply. He can't find words.

"That's you, though, isn't it?" Hamilton's picking up speed again. He's slick, clipped, biting. "I know you, Thomas Jefferson. You think you're detached from everything. Nothing has to do with you, and yet the whole universe revolves around you. So when one thing goes the wrong way? You run." He laughs harshly. "Run away, hit the road."

"Hamilton..."

"Don't give me your bullshit."

Jefferson is speechless.

This is them, though, isn't it? The fundamental difference between Hamilton and Jefferson, put so clearly in focus now.

Jefferson runs. Hamilton hides.

Runs from pain. Runs from confrontation. Runs from emotion.

Hides from grief. Hides from failure. Hides from closure.

This is who they are. This is who they will always be. Different in some one-and-the-same, twisted sort of way.

Same as it ever was.

"The parlor calls." Hamilton continues. "The hospital calls. His _mother_ calls."

Same as it ever was.

"And what do you do? You run. You run as far as you can and you tear yourself apart." Hamilton takes a moment. Jefferson can see him in his mind's eye, massaging the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Maybe not in politics, but in life? That's all you do."

Same as it ever was.

"Listen. I'm _sorry_. I understand what you're going through," Hamilton says, "I do. But you have to _try_."

Silence. The words don't reach.

"Burr told me to ask you if you'd looked at the book yet."

Hamilton could never understand. He could never understand the incomprehensible.

The unimaginable.

Jefferson remains silent.

Hamilton sighs. "I didn't think so."

The inevitable.

"You're not living, Jefferson. You have to _try_. You have to _do something. Say something_."

The coffeemaker is crackling again.

The vent is blowing cold air.

The sink is dripping in the bathroom.

_His_ voice is in Jefferson's ear.

"I can't."

"Tell me what's going on. Where you are."

"I can't."

" _Jefferson_."

He remembers. "You were there."

"I was— what, at the service?" Hamilton scoffs. " _Right_. I learned a _whole lot_ from a bunch of people crying."

He remembers going home that evening, still dressed in black. Drinking.

He remembers waking up in his kitchen the next morning.

He remembers packing his suitcase. Writing a note. Changing his clothes.

He remembers boarding the next plane to New York City, still reeking of old whiskey and rum.

Hamilton lets out something between a huff and a sigh. "I don't care. _Just_. Call his fucking mother."

The call ends.

_Click_.

Silence.

Same as it ever was.

Jefferson drops his phone. It falls to the ground by his bed, discarded and forgotten as he turns with sudden energy and hurls himself face-first into the knot of sheets and clothes on the mattress.

Let him burn.

The guilt burns.

The grief burns.

The unimaginable burns.

He just wants to burn.

He wishes this was disease. He wishes it would swallow him whole and spit him out as just a body to be buried or a body to be burned.

He wishes it could have been him.

It's his fault. The guilt is his and it's eating him alive, burning and burning and burning him into a lifeless shell.

He likes it that way.

Hollow.

Cold.

Sweat.

Grey.

But the guilt burns. It's his fault. It's his fault. It's his fault that he didn't supply enough. It's his fault that he didn't notice what was wrong sooner. It's his fault that he didn't keep his promise.

_You're gonna be okay. I promise._

He didn't keep his promise.

Jefferson looks up, his eyes dry and dully aching in the dusty air. They fall immediately upon the shelf.

The book remains unopened.

Slowly, he pulls himself up— arm by arm, leg by leg, muscles and bones cramping and creaking in protest as he forces himself into motion. Right. Left. Hold.

His head throbs as he eases his way off the mattress. Up.

He drags his feet across the carpet to the bookshelf, reaching out both hands to meet the book. His fingers trace its spine. It's jet black. Barely touched. Gathering dust.

He moves to pick it up.

_Open the book, Jefferson, do something. Say something._

_You're not living, Jefferson. You have to try. You have to do something. Say something._

_Thomas?_

He can't.

He can't.

He can't.

He reaches instead for the box beside it, taking it into his arms and collapsing back onto the bed. It's only a moment before his fingers are prying open the lid, tearing out letter after letter, reading line after line, feeling his chest cramp and his eyes dry and his mind burn.

_Yours sincerely,_

_With the assurance of the most perfect respect and attachment I remain yours,_

_Accept my sincerest affection and highest esteem,_

_Yours affectionately,_

_Yours._

Jefferson clutches the last one to his chest, his body shaking under the pressure of the sobs that roll like thunder from his core. He is shaking, sinking further down, wrapping the sheets and the letters around himself and feeling his tears smudge the ink.

_You aren't living._

The edges of the letter in his hands crumple between his fingers.

_Yours_.

He just wants to burn.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am 0% kidding when I say that comments (and kudos) 100% make my day. I reply to every one, so please drop me a line if you'd like! Also.  
> N e x t . C h a p t e r . ;)


	8. Fractured IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh no

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy...

_"We could write each other letters."_

_Jefferson stirred another spoonful of sugar into his coffee. "Letters?"_

_"Letters," Madison confirmed. It was a Sunday morning, much like any other— Jefferson's kitchen smelled of coffee and just slightly burnt toast, the sunlight streamed in on the countertops through the window over the sink, and both he and Madison were perusing the week's newspapers and mail._

_"It's not like I won't see you, though." Jefferson furrowed his brow. "I'm not gonna just... see you once a week, drop by with a get-well balloon or something. I'll see you all the time."_

_Madison sighed. It was a shallow sigh, but it was the type that wanted to sound heavy. Jefferson had been hearing this particular type of sigh more and more as of late. "You'll have work to be doing, and I'll have limited hours." He paused. "They're starting treatment in a few days."_

_Jefferson nodded stiffly. "Okay. But that doesn't mean—"_

_"It means we're gonna have a lot less time to spend together and it means the best way to actually get to talk to each other consistently is through letters."_

_"What about phone calls?"_

_Jefferson knew it was a foolish suggestion even without Madison's subsequent expression of disapproval. "My lungs are the problem here, Thomas. I won't always be able to call you."_

_Jefferson let out a sigh of his own, folding the newspaper he had been reading. "Letters."_

_"Letters."_

_He considered Madison's point. The campaign trail and the election drew closer each day, filling his schedule like a flood. The times he would be able to visit Madison at the hospital would have to fit around meetings and speeches and events. As much as he may have been compelled to say that he would visit every day, and as much as he may have wanted to, Madison was right. His schedule would never allow it. "We'll write each other nightly."_

_"Nightly." Madison smiled softly, taking a sip of his own coffee. "You're sure you'll have time for that?"_

_Jefferson met his eye with a look of incredulity. "You're the_ only _thing I have time for."_

_"A nightly letter." Madison nodded, digesting the idea. "Not ideal, but it'll work."_

_"It'll work," Jefferson promised. He looked over his shoulder, peering out the window into the sun._

_Frankly, a letter a night was manageable. A letter a night was a stroke of luck. But a letter a night would never be enough. Words and paper and sentiments written out in ink could never match the many days and nights Madison had spent at Jefferson's abode, whiling away the hours with whatever happened to strike their fancy at any particular time. A letter was not akin to a lazy day spent in bed. A letter was not akin to seeing Madison beside him, looking at the pages of a book and feeling that inexplicable connection between language and emotion. A letter was not akin to a goodnight kiss._

_A letter a night would never be enough._

_Wordlessly, Jefferson placed his mug on the counter, walking around to where Madison sat and bracing one hand on his shoulder to lean in and press a gentle kiss to his cheek. And another. And another._

_Madison closed his eyes, shoulders falling into a slouch._

_Jefferson leaned down a little further, trailing his kisses along Madison's cheek to reach his lips. The latter turned to make it an easier task, reaching one hand up weakly to touch the hand Jefferson had rested on his shoulder. It was a fast kiss, as Jefferson's back was rather uncomfortably hunched and he didn't want to interfere too much with Madison's breathing, but it was enough._

_Madison would always be so much more than enough._

_He pulled back, straightening his posture again. "I'll write you a letter every night. It'll be our new normal, okay?"_

_Madison nodded, his eyes fluttering back open. "Yeah."_

_Jefferson managed a bittersweet smile. A nightly letter, frequent visits... He could be enough. They could be enough. Maybe that would be enough._

_"Hey." He held up a hand suddenly, scanning the kitchen for his phone. "Hold on a second."_

_Finding the thing on the counter by the radio, he tapped in his passcode and thumbed through his music app as he crossed back to Madison._

_Jefferson extended his free hand regally to Madison, pressing the screen and turning the volume all the way up. The sound quality was tinny and mediocre at best, nevertheless, he cracked a grin. "May I have this dance, Mr. Madison?"_

Somewhere beyond the sea

Somewhere, waiting for me

My lover stands on golden sands

And watches the ships

That go sailin'...

_Madison split into a smile, taking Jefferson's hand and letting himself be pulled into a gentle sway on the tile floor._

It's far beyond a star

It's near beyond the moon...

_"If we ever have a wedding," Jefferson mused dreamily, "Can this be our first dance?"_

_Madison laughed. "If it's not playing out of a phone, yes."_

_"And if it is playing out of a phone?" Jefferson kissed the top of his head, still grinning._

_Madison sighed. Just a humorous, adoring sigh. "I guess I don't care."_

_"As long as we're together?" Jefferson hummed teasingly._

_"As long as we get a good cake to compensate."_

_Jefferson laughed, twirling Madison clumsily under his arm. "We'll meet beyond the shore... We'll kiss, just as before... Happy we'll be beyond the sea..."_

_Madison wrapped his arms around Jefferson's waist._

_"... we'll meet, I know we'll meet beyond the shore..."_

_"Love you."_

_"We'll kiss just as before..." Jefferson pressed another light kiss to the top of Madison's head. "Happy we'll be beyond the sea... And never again I'll go sailin'..."_

_The song ended, fading into silence._

_Jefferson closed his eyes. "I love you, too."_

_Maybe they could be enough._

 

 

Cold. Sweat. Grey.

Jefferson shivers.

Fractured.

 

 

_"Not quite." Jefferson grinned, switching the bouquet to his other hand behind his back. "Guess again."_

_"Uh..." Madison thought for a moment. "A macaroni craft."_

_"Nope," Jefferson dismissed. "I'll give you a hint. Starts with an 'f'."_

_"F... Fanny pack?"_

_"'_ Fanny pack _'?" He couldn't help but laugh this time. "I say the letter 'f' and your mind jumps to '_ fanny pack _'?"_

_"Actually, my mind jumped to 'fuck,' but that didn't make sense in context." Madison shrugged._

_"Ah, of course." Jefferson nodded. He pulled the bouquet out from behind his back, holding it out to Madison. "The answer was 'flowers,' by the way."_

_"Flowers. I was close." Madison smiled, accepting the bunch from where he lay. It had been months since he'd begun several different treatments, and almost all of this time had been spent in the hospital under the watchful eyes of several doctors. Like Jefferson, Madison had remained true to his word, and the two exchanged letters as often as the post could deliver them. Despite work picking up pace and Madison's treatments seeming inconclusive, life went on. "Thank you."_

_"Don't sweat it." Jefferson scoped out a chair by the wall, sliding it to Madison's bedside. He sat down and took the man's hand gently in his own. "I'm still surprised they let you put up pictures."_

_The wall above Madison's bed was peppered with printouts of pictures he and Jefferson had taken together— snapshots of them both on walks, of Madison in Jefferson's coat, of Jefferson in outlandish bowties, of them both wrapped in Jefferson's blankets..._

_"I'm glad they did." Madison craned his neck, shifting ever so slightly to look up at the collection. He placed the bouquet on the bed beside him. "That one of you is one of my favorites."_

_Jefferson looked up at where Madison was pointing, finding the picture of him grinning at the camera in the bookstore. Looking at it was a good temporary distraction from the frailness in Madison's posture, the scratchiness in his voice, the way his skin seemed to cling to his bones. Jefferson squinted at the photo. "I remember that day."_

_"It was a long time ago now, wasn't it?" Madison turned around, leaning back into his pillows._

_"Yeah." Jefferson smiled. "Doesn't feel like it."_

_Madison looked down at his flowers, taking the petal of one between his thumb and forefinger. "Time flies."_

_"Time flies," Jefferson agreed._

_"Can I ask you for something stupid?" Madison asked suddenly._

_"Anything."_

_He reached over to a small stand by the bed, picking something up from it and turning it over in his hand. "Permission to take your picture."_

_Jefferson chuckled. "That's my line, isn't it?"_

_"We can always change our lines, Mr. Jefferson," Madison teased._

_"Permission granted."_

_Madison clicked the power button, turning his camera to face Jefferson. "Say cheese."_

_"Macar—"_

_He laughed, exasperated. "Just cheese."_

_Jefferson smiled. "Cheese!"_

_The camera clicked. "Thank you."_

_"Anything." He gestured to the thing. "How'd you get one of those?"_

_Madison smiled. "My mother."_

_"Ah," Jefferson shifted relaxedly in his chair, "And where's the lovely Mrs. Madison today?"_

_"She's coming this afternoon to visit," Madison replied. He coughed lightly into his fist, holding his other hand up to signify that there was nothing worth notifying a doctor or a nurse about._

_"I'll have to stick around to say hi, then." Jefferson flashed him a grin._

_Madison nodded, turning slowly to put the camera back in its place by the bed. Back turned to Jefferson, he spoke. "Before she's here, I, um..." He coughed again. "I should tell you..."_

_Jefferson leaned an elbow on the back of his chair. "Anything."_

_Madison eased himself back to his previous position, fingers reaching tentatively until they wrapped around the base of the bouquet of flowers by his side. Jefferson tried to ignore their trembling. "You know they've tried a lot of different... Treatment. And all."_

_"Right." Something in Jefferson's stomach churned. "Are they gonna start another method?"_

_Madison hesitated, taking the flowers between both his hands now. His breaths were short. "No."_

_Jefferson felt his nausea deepen._

_"There are... a lot of things. Going on. With my lungs." He still had yet to meet Jefferson's eye. "A few doctors came in yesterday and talked about it all."_

_Jefferson nodded slowly._

_"They've tried so many things, you know that? But it was diagnosed late enough, and with how things have gone, nothing works and some things just counteract each other..." Madison trailed off._

_Jefferson could only stare._

_Madison finally looked him in the eye._

_His eyes._

_They were dark with a distinct humor in them, and although he nearly managed to conceal all else, they were undoubtedly the most expressive feature of Madison's._

_There was no humor in them at this moment._

_Only darkness._

_"So you're giving up."_

_Madison shook his head, grimacing. "It's not 'giving up.' It's giving in."_

_"They're the same." Jefferson's voice was hollow. "You're giving up."_

_"Would you rather I die of sickness or of treatment that makes it worse?"_

"Stop."

_"Stop what?" Madison seemed to deflate, weakening from one moment to the next. "I don't want it to be a surprise to you. That's all."_

_Jefferson leaned forwards, dropping his head into his hands._

_There are moments that the words don't reach._

_There is suffering too terrible to name._

_He looked up. Slowly rested one hand on the bed until Madison took it, squeezing it dully._

_He tried to push away the unimaginable._

_The incomprehensible._

_The inevitable._

 

 

He remembers the aches.

He remembers the inability to control how his muscles clenched and unclenched, captive to his wrenching sobs.

He remembers the bruises on his skin, the walls and the furniture and the floor meeting his fists and his feet with reckless abandon.

He remembers depriving himself.

He remembers destroying himself.

He remembers.

 

 

_"I was rereading the first few letters you wrote me." Jefferson's smile was gentle, his eyes glancing between the pages in his hand and the man on the bed._

_"Yeah?" Madison replied frailly. His voice was frail. His posture was frail._

_He was frail._

_"Mm hmm." Jefferson flipped one of the papers over. "You close this one saying, 'with the assurance of the most perfect respect and attachment I remain yours.'"_

_Madison smiled. "Ha." His eyelids were drooping with fatigue, and underneath them, he watched Jefferson. There was a fondness in his gaze, a sort of fragile ease with which he regarded Jefferson._

_"In your latest," Jefferson pulled a paper from the bottom of his stack, "You sign off with, 'Yours affectionately.'"_

_"Simple." Madison nodded. "I like it that way now."_

_Jefferson laughed lightly, reordering the letters and placing them on his lap. He sighed. "Me too."_

_An easy pause followed. With Madison, comfortable silence was beyond comfortable. It, along with every other state of being that Jefferson was lucky enough to share with him, was not only comfortable, but comfort_ ing.

_Jefferson couldn't help but smile to himself. He was unfathomably lucky to be alive in time to know and cherish life with Madison._

_And like_ hell _he cherished it._

_"I heard."_

_Jefferson looked up. "What?"_

_Madison's expression was now one of guilt. "You dropped out of the race."_

_"Oh." Jefferson looked down at the letters again. "I did."_

_Madison glanced at him, eyebrows raised regretfully. "You would've won."_

_Jefferson considered his response for a long moment._

_If anything felt like heaven, it was Madison beside him._

_If anything felt like winning, it was every state of being that Jefferson was lucky enough to share with him._

_"You've been a pillar of support to me since we met," he answered finally. "I could never give that up."_

_"You didn't have to throw away your sh—"_

_"I've trusted you to take care of me when you don't even know you're what I need. I'm yours." One corner of Jefferson's mouth turned up into a smile. "I'm so yours."_

_Madison sighed. "Your political career—"_

_"Can wait." Jefferson took Madison's hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "You're the_ only _thing I have time for."_

_There was one window in the hospital room— it was west-facing, looking out towards the rest of D.C. when the curtains were open. At this particular moment, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving retreating strokes of color in the sky as feeble reminders of its presence. Dusk was beginning to fall, the rosy light receding to make way for night._

_"You still don't really believe it, do you."_

_Madison's voice was quiet. It had always been soft, but these past few months had seen it weaken and falter even more._

_"Believe it?" They weren't talking about politics anymore. Jefferson watched the sky out the window intently. "I believe it. I just... I believe it."_

_Madison's tone struck a knowing, melancholy chord. "It's alright, you know."_

_Jefferson shook his head sharply. "It's not enough. You— no, you know,_ we — _could've done so much more if you only had time." He finally turned his gaze to Madison. "We could've gotten married. We could've written together. We could've traveled. I could've taken you to Paris. We could've run for President, hell. We could've grown old together. We coul—"_

_"Thomas." Madison held up a hand dismissively. "You can still do all of that."_

_Jefferson stared at him. "I can't."_

_"You can."_

_"You're missing the 'together' part." Jefferson shifted in frustration. "I can't."_

_"You can do all of it and you should." Madison crossed his arms carefully over his chest. They were thin and weak, his skin papery. "It's okay."_

_"It's not."_

_"I want you to live."_

_He laughed a humorless, dry laugh. "Well, shit,_ I _want_ you _to live."_

_"Stop."_

_"I can't just stop, it's—"_

_"You know I've wanted this?"_

_Jefferson fell silent again, looking at Madison with wide eyes._

_"I've been ready for years, Thomas." Madison closed his eyes. "Sure, you're a reason to live, but now that it's coming? I'm not afraid."_

_"Well. I haven't had years to mull it over—"_

_"But you_ will _have years to mull it over."_

_"James." Jefferson stared daggers at him. "I can't."_

_"Alexander-hurricane-Hamilton is far from the only one with a death wish."  
_

" _Don't." He flinched. "Just don't."_

_"I don't expect you to accept it yet." Madison opened his eyes again, turning them to Jefferson. "But you will someday." He smiled softly. "It's only a matter of time."_

_Jefferson stiffened. "No."_

_"Y—"_

_"You know why this is happening?"_

_"I'm ill, Thomas, that's why."_

_"No." Jefferson's throat tightened, straining his voice around a heavy knot. "You were diagnosed too late."_

_Madison sighed heavily. "Thomas..."_

_"If I'd tried, if I'd noticed, said something, you would be okay." Jefferson shook his head. "Too late."_

_"Thomas."_

_"Too fucking late. You would be sick, I'd make you fucking soup._ Soup. _That's it." He was shaking now. "You would disappear to the bathroom for too long, I wouldn't check on you. You would cough, I wouldn't take you to a doctor."_

_"Thomas, don't."_

_"No." Jefferson looked away. The sky was dark by now. "Don't tell me to accept it. Don't you tell me to accept it."_

_Madison was silent for a long time after this. The room buzzed only with the faint noises of machinery and other rooms through the walls._

_A machine by the window was crackling._

_A ceiling vent was blowing cold air._

_IV fluid dripped in a bag nearby._

_Madison's whisper found its way to Jefferson's ear._

_"Please. Stop blaming yourself."_

_Jefferson shuddered, an almost feverish jolt._

_"I can't."_

 

 

It's dark outside the window. It's dark inside the room.

Silence.

Same as it ever was.

 

 

_The wall was blank again, bland paint on full display above the bed._

_"They took the pictures down."_

_"Mm." Madison's chin tipped the slightest bit in place of a nod. "They're down."_

_Jefferson was perched on the bed at Madison's side,_ A Tale of Two Cities _lying open in his lap where he had stopped reading aloud from it. "You've got them, though?"_

_"They're for you." Madison smiled softly. "By the window."_

_"They're yours," Jefferson replied, shooting him a light smile in return. He ran the back of one hand gently along Madison's cheek— his skin had become weathered and thin as ever, the dark circles under his eyes fading out into discoloration and paper-thinness. "Doing okay?"_

_"Yeah." Madison closed his eyes carefully. Slowly. He patted the mattress weakly, inviting Jefferson down. "Doing excellent."_

_Jefferson's heart skipped a beat, recovering only when Madison's kept beating._

_"Yeah." He sighed a shallow breath of relief, lowering himself down to lie by his side. "Yeah."_

_For the past two days, Madison's health had drastically declined to the point that Jefferson had booked a hotel room a stone's throw away from the hospital to spend his nights. Due to Madison's condition, he was now allowed unlimited visitation during the day and into the night, but for a bed and a shower, he needed a room elsewhere. At the moment, it was late morning, and the sky was a forgiving pale blue outside the window._

_Madison's breathing was steadier than it had been in months. "Are you?"_

_"Hmm?" Jefferson's arm was gently draped across Madison's middle._

_"Doing okay?"_

_"Yeah."_

_The gentleness of the morning was lulling. Jefferson hardly remembered the last time he'd felt this relaxed._

_"You'll take your time?"_

_He pressed a kiss to Madison's shoulder. "What d'you mean?"_

_Madison turned his head a bit both ways in an attempt at shaking it._

_Jefferson leaned closer to him gingerly. "You're the_ only _thing I have time for."_

_"I'm serious." Madison's breath caught for a moment before evening out again._

_"Me too."_

_Silence fell, a blanket that numbed all beneath it._

_"It's okay now." Madison's whisper was serene._

_For once, there was no fear. No stress. No humor._

_There was only peace._

_Jefferson's stomach dropped._

_Serenity was a red flag._

_He scrambled to get upright again. "Jemmy?"_

_Madison's eyes were closed, his forehead relaxed. He smiled ever so slightly._

_"James." Jefferson felt panic rise in his chest. Madison was leaving. He could feel it— the room was emptying somehow, the tranquil warmth fading to nothingness. "James, no, no, you're gonna be okay..."_

_He scanned the room for some way to get a nurse, a doctor, someone, anyone without leaving._

_Nothing._

_"Shh." Madison took a long, fruitless breath. "I'm okay."_

_"James..." Nothing. He was leaving. He was leaving. He was leaving Jefferson alone in this nothingness._

_"You're gonna be okay."_

_"James, stop..." Hands shaking, he took Madison's in his own, holding them, trying desperately to find warmth. Something. Anything._

_Nothing._

_"You're gonna be okay." Madison's smile faded, his eyelids stilling. "I promise."_

_Nothing._

_It wasn't beautiful._

_It wasn't romantic._

_It wasn't conclusive._

_It was just death._

_It was just nothing._

_Jefferson squeezed Madison's hand._

_Nothing._

_He shook him, his body limp and calm and gone. Clutched the sheets. Let the tears pull him down. Sank. Buried his face in Madison's chest and listened to the silence blare in his ear where there should have been a heartbeat._

_But there was just death._

_There was just nothing._

_He was gone._

_Jefferson couldn't wake from this nightmare, this unimaginable nothingness that filled every space and every shadow._

_The guilt burned._

_The grief burned._

_The unimaginable burned._

_He just wanted to burn._

_He couldn't hide— he couldn't hide from loneliness and he couldn't hide from hollowness and he couldn't hide from nothingness._

_He couldn't hide._

_He could run._

_He wished it could have been him._

_He just wanted to burn._

 

He can't.

He can't.

He can't.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments (and kudos) make my life much less miserable, and Thomas's, too. <3 Come talk about feelings with me si vous voulez, mes amis.


	9. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last time. Enjoy...

Crackling.

Jefferson rolls over, pressing his face into yellowing fabric.

Cold. Sweat. Grey.

Light comes through the blinds, pouring in from where they bent and broke between their strings.

Cars. Sun. Noise.

Crackling.

_Groans_.

All is just as it was when Jefferson fell into an indefinite amount of restless sleep.

All around him in this nest upon the bed are words.

_Yours sincerely,_

_With the assurance of the most perfect respect and attachment I remain yours,_

_Accept my sincerest affection and highest esteem,_

_Yours affectionately,_

_Yours._

Madison's letters are scattered around him.

_I didn't know about him. I'm sorry. Please call me, ok son? His mother, too?_

_Everyone's worried. Call me again. And call Nelly._

_Listen I'm sorry and I know it's hard but if you could pick up your goddamn phone and call one of us? That'd be great. Call Mrs. Madison._

_I heard what happened. Call home. His mother's worried sick. That was insensitive wording. Sorry. You know._

_If u don't answer your phone you fucking prick I'm finding ur sorry ass and drop kicking u into next week got it you piece of shit? CALL US. CALL NELLY MADISON._

_Thomas?_

Text after text reverberates through his mind.

_You're gonna be okay. I promise._

Madison's voice is in his ear.

_Open the book, Jefferson, do something. Say something._

Jefferson turns, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. He lets the words reach out to him. They build a nest as tangible as the heaps of sweaty blankets and unclean sheets and discarded clothes and old tissues and crumpled papers and protein bar wrappers around him. They build and build and build. They are fragile and beautiful and strained.

He is so tired of shattering.

_You're not living, Jefferson. You have to try. You have to do something. Say something._

The words are all the same, screaming out through the silence in one cry.

He is not living.

But he _wants_ to.

Jefferson closes his eyes. He is so tired of shattering, of running, of decaying, of giving in. He feels the hollow nothingness and bears its weight as if it is a part of him now, a constant reminder of the loss and grief and loneliness that he tries so hard to escape from.

But he is so tired.

He doesn't want to run anymore.

He can't run anymore.

He can't.

_You're not living._

Slowly, Jefferson pulls himself up— arm by arm, leg by leg, muscles and bones cramping and creaking in protest as he forces himself into motion.

Right. Left. Hold.

His head throbs as he eases his way off the mattress.

Up.

He drags his feet across the carpet to the bookshelf, reaching out both hands to meet the book. His fingers trace its spine. It's jet black. Barely touched. Gathering dust.

He moves to pick it up.

He doesn't want to run anymore.

He can't run anymore.

He can't.

The cover is heavy, cracking lightly as Jefferson lifts the book off the shelf and takes it gently into his arms.

_It's okay now._

He sits on the edge of the bed, slipping his fingers beneath the front cover.

_It's okay now._

He opens it.

Photographs.

The pages are protected by slick, clear plastic, each one filled with photographs.

There are snapshots of them both on walks, of Madison in Jefferson's coat, of Jefferson in outlandish bowties, of them both wrapped in Jefferson's blankets. There are pictures of both of them in matching jackets, of the pair of them sharing a quick kiss in the dressing rooms, of Madison in boots that come up to his knees, of Madison pulling a rare public smile, of Madison yawning, of Madison laughing, of Madison blushing. There are photos of Jefferson smiling in a bookstore, of Madison spooning potato salad into his mouth in a bagel shop, of them both enjoying a bottle of wine.

Photographs.

Madison's collection is in his hands.

_It's okay now._

Jefferson stares at one particular photograph for a long moment.

They are in the park. The sky is grey, a flat expanse of clouds blanketing the earth as far as the eye can see. Jefferson's purple peacoat is around Madison's shoulders. Madison's arm is around Jefferson's waist.

They are smiling.

They are living.

He closes the book, resting it in his lap.

Numbness settles over him like a quilt. It is comforting— it has been following him through restless days and nights, creeping between his dreams and hiding in every corner. An old, familiar face.

He is ready to stop pretending.

Madison is gone.

Madison is gone.

Madison is gone.

_It's only a matter of time._

Jefferson may not truly accept it. Hell, he knows he very likely never will. But he can't run anymore. Not from pain, not from confrontation, not from emotion. Not from the unimaginable nothingness that fills every space and every shadow. He can't run. He can't hide. He can't accept. He can't forgive himself.

But he can live.

_I want you to live._

He can live.

_You're gonna be okay._

He can live.

_I promise._

His phone is about an arm's length away, underneath a few letters.

Jefferson reaches for it.

_I'm okay._

He can live. He is living.

_Come back. Please._

Jefferson taps the screen, dialing a number he should have dialed weeks ago.

_Nelly Madison._

He is living.

 

_You're gonna be okay._

 

He is going home.

 

_I promise._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments (and kudos) save my life, please drop me a line if you'd like!  
> An infinite thank you to everyone who's read this. I owe you my soul. If you'd like to befriend a lonely Poet, scream about this fic, this fandom, or Hamilton in general, find me:  
> \- @your-obedient-poet (tumblr)  
> \- philipthepoet19@gmail.com
> 
> Thank you so much. <3


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